Whiteout Part One
by loobeyloo
Summary: Whiteout Station is a multi national scientific project based in the Arctic Circle. When contact is lost, because of her versatility, Airwolf and her crew are recruited to travel North to discover what has happened. Something sinister or natural disaster?
1. Chapter 1

WHITEOUT is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF. Copyright 2008. This refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters.

Warning: There is some mild use of colloquial swearing in this story, but mainly for authenticity and it touches on adult themes.

For Jan Michael Vincent, who lifted Stringfellow Hawke from the page and breathed life into him, revealing his loyalty, patriotism, strength and single mindedness and most of all, his love for his family and his devotion to his country, playing him with a warmth, sensitivity, charm and charisma that has kept the character alive in the hearts and minds of fans the world over for more than twenty years, and is still winning new hearts even today.

Thank you for giving us a hero we could all believe in.

Best wishes from all of us to you, where ever you are.

Note from the author:

The action in this story takes place at the beginning of Season 1, around the time of the episodes One Way Express which aired on February 18th, 1984, and Echoes of the Past which aired on March 3rd, 1984.

**_Prologue._**

**_Центр управления полетом следопыта, где-то в СССР…._**

**_День одно - Воскресенье 11-ое февраль 1984._**

**_Предыдущий вечер._**

**_Pathfinder Mission Control Center, somewhere in the USSR …._**

**_Day One – Saturday, February 11th, 1984._**

**_Early evening._**

General Anatoly Vladimirovich Popov let out a deep sigh of frustration as he listened to the monotonous voice on the other end of the telephone line droning into his ear.

He wasn't really listening; instead his attention was drawn to the floor of the control room below his large office window and the white coat clad, sombre faced scientists manning their stations with quiet efficiency.

The man on the other end of the line was some political big wig in Moscow, a yawning bore, waxing lyrical about the urgency to get the information they required, and demanding to know what was taking so long, after all, it was a simple enough request.

Popov knew that the ridiculous little man sitting there in his plush, cozy little office in Moscow had no idea what his request really entailed, the meticulous detail, the time consuming and complex calculations that were required before they could even consider taking action.

It wasn't just a simple case of pressing a button, after all, but the man on the other end of the line seemed to think that he could snap his fingers, and the job would instantly be done.

Popov glanced at the large clock on the back wall of the control room below his window and calculated that the initial call from Moscow had been received approximately three hours and thirty minutes before.

He had immediately issued the order to the scientist in charge of the Pathfinder Project, Dr Stanislav Sergeyevich Titov, to alter the Pathfinder satellite's orbit so that it could focus on the co-ordinates of an alleged new American nuclear missile launching facility, however, he knew that the calculations required to work out the new orbit, then resetting the sensitive photographic equipment and then recalibrating the computer down here at mission control to receive the new images and process them could take anything between four and six hours.

After three years of overseeing the Pathfinder Project, General Popov knew every detail of every step that was required to safely manoeuvre the satellite into a new orbit and just how diligently the scientists and engineers involved in that process worked to ensure that everything went according to plan.

It was not something that could be rushed, no matter how _**imperative **_or _**urgent **_the man from Moscow insisted.

All the steps had to be followed, in the right order, or it could spell disaster.

"Comrade, I will contact you as soon as the first data stream is received," Popov tried to placate the man from Moscow now, feeling his stomach rumble in protest that he was almost an hour over due to take dinner and thinking sarcastically to himself that if it really was a new missile launching facility, and not just some new wild goose chase, it would still be there tomorrow, and, if it was ready to go operational, someone, somewhere had not done a very good job in detecting it before now.

At last, the General set the telephone receiver back down in its cradle, and sat back from his desk with another deep sigh.

Politicians!

He closed his eyes and ran his hand over his face, tired eyes stinging from lack of sleep and pouring over the reams of data figures that Dr Titov had brought to him that morning, statistics and running costs and of course, the ever increasing salary column, and wondered what he would have for dinner tonight. The Borscht was good, but boring when he was forced to have it at least three times a week!

When he opened his eyes once more, slightly blurred for a second before focusing properly, the first thing he noticed was a sudden and unusual flurry of activity on the control room floor, and a somewhat flustered looking Stanislav Titov crossing the floor on long strides, waving a sheaf of paper at the newest of the recruits to the project, and the reason for the expanding salary bill.

Popov watched Titov lean over the young man's console, ancient black horn rimmed spectacles falling low on the bridge of his nose, as he punched a few buttons, clearing the screen and resetting the columns of figures scrolling across it, and then leaned in even closer, as though he could not believe what he was seeing.

_**Oh hell …. **_

_**What now?**_

_**Another console failure?**_ The General thought sourly.

How were they supposed to function properly, work efficiently, when the equipment they were forced to use was from the Gagarin era!

However, Popov immediately knew that something was wrong when he watched all the color suddenly drain from Titov's usually flaccid cheeks.

He watched with growing unease as Titov and the young controller rushed across the control room floor to another work station and asked the controller there to call up a new screen of data, then Titov moved to another position to confer with another scientist, and then, Popov watched with mounting trepidation as the elderly scientist sank down into the nearest chair, a look of horror and disbelief on his face as his legs refused to bear his weight any longer.

Popov immediately pushed his chair back from his desk and rose to his full, imposing height of six feet four inches and feeling his heart rate increase, strode to the office door, yanking it open swiftly and stepping out on to the concrete balcony that over looked the control room.

"What is going on, Comrade Doctor?"

The General deliberately kept his tone low and neutral, noting that the elderly scientist looked incredibly sick, his skin grey and clammy looking, big brown eyes bulging in his ashen face, hands visibly shaking as they clutched the reams of paper he had taken from the computer printer, to his chest.

Titov was too shaken to answer the General, and the younger man beside him shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other, as he looked from one to the other of his superiors and wondered if he should speak up.

The young man had been eager to make an impression, this being his first month on the project, but not _**that **_kind of impression.

Fortunately, the General made the decision for him and fixed him with a cold, grey stare.

"You, Borodin, tell me what is happening," Popov demanded.

"One of the retro thrusters misfired, Comrade General Popov, Sir …." The younger man gulped and stammered in a high pitched, squeaky voice, obviously very excited and terrified all at the same time.

"And this means what, exactly?" Popov asked, keeping his tone neutral, although he thought that he already knew the answer.

"We are just double checking the data, General …. But …."

"The satellite is out of control, tumbling over and over, General …." This from Stanislav Titov now, his voice hoarse and deep, expression vague as he began to clutch at his chest with his right hand.

"Can you calculate a course correction?"

"Course correction! General, the wretched thing is falling to earth and there is not a damned thing that we can do about it!" Titov exploded now. "We no longer have control, do you understand, Comrade General? We have all suddenly become …. Redundant! There is no more Pathfinder Project …."

Titov was gasping for breath now, and his young colleague was trying desperately to get him to calm down, fearing that he was going to have a full blown heart attack right there in front of him.

"Is that correct, Comrade Doctor Borodin?"

Pavel Ivanovich Borodin gulped again, giving the impression that he was choking on his own Adam's apple, as the General fixed his cold steel grey eyes on him once more.

"I am afraid so, Comrade General. The best that we can hope for is that if it survives re-entry into the atmosphere, it falls into a very deep ocean, or, if it hits land, it is somewhere where we can easily retrieve what may be left, before the Americans or any other interested party can get their hands on the sensitive equipment inside …."

"We should destroy it!" Dr Titov gasped out, still clutching at his chest, cheeks flooded with color now and eyes bulging manically behind the thick lenses of the old fashioned eye glasses. "Before it makes re-entry!"

"That is not a decision that either you or I can make, Comrade Doctor," The General gave a deep, shoulder raising sigh. "Only Moscow can give _**that **_order. How long? How long do we have before the satellite re-enters the earth's atmosphere?"

Titov remained silent, still gasping for every painful breath and clutching at his chest, so once again the young man was forced to answer.

"We are still calculating …."

"Bring that information to me when you have it, Comrade Dr Borodin. Comrade Dr Titov, I think you should step outside and get a little air, before you expire on us. Pull yourself together man, for we still have need of you."

Dr Pavel Ivanovich Borodin watched as the Comrade General span on his heel and retired to his office, thinking that the man had actually taken the news quite well, all things considered, unlike Comrade Dr Titov, who still looked as if he were about to keel over at any moment, as another of their colleagues, Dr Vasili Viktorovich Leonov helped him out of his seat and supported his weight, as they crossed the room to the fire door that led to the outside world.

Borodin watched General Popov enter his office, move to the large window and pull the blind down, and he speculated that the man was about to have his own nervous breakdown, but much more privately than Titov.

Someone was for the high jump, Borodin speculated silently as the rest of the control room began to buzz with soft voices and movement as the scientists crossed the room to confer with their colleagues, double checking the data that all knew meant the end of their careers here.

Borodin did not envy the General his next task. Putting in the call to Moscow to inform them of this latest development, and he found himself praying that the General would not see fit to shoot the messenger when he went in there later with the data that he had requested.

/a\

**_Где-то в Москва…._**

**_День 2 - Понедельник 12-ое февраля 1984,_**

**_раннее утро._**

**_Somewhere in Moscow …._**

**_Day Two – Sunday, February 12th, 1984,_**

**_Early morning._**

"This is intolerable! I cannot believe their incompetence!" Viktor Grigorovich Demidov raged as he ground out his burned down cigarette into an already full crystal ash tray on the desk before him.

"The situation could not be worse! Not only is the wretched thing falling out of the sky seven years ahead of schedule, now they are telling me that it is going to land on American soil!" He seethed, slamming his balled fist into the top of the desk, sending papers and cigarette ash flying into the already smoke polluted air. "Listen to me Comrade, and hear me well. It _**must not**_ fall into the enemy's hands!"

"What difference does it make, Comrade?" Colonel Vladimir Iosifovich Nikitin flinched, as he asked his superior the question.

"All they will find is a spy satellite containing sophisticated photographic and transmitting equipment, and a memory chip recording details of the sites that we have been watching, none of which will be of any surprise to the Americans as they too have similar technology and aims …. But there is no guarantee that the satellite will even survive re-entry. If that is the case, then all they will find is a burned out ruin …."

"Idiot!" Demidov exploded, his face growing dark and flushed. "I am not concerned over the technology the Americans might lay their hands on. I am aware that the Americans know that we are watching them, as they are watching us. They know the places that are of interest to us, and that is all anything that they might be able to retrieve and use from the satellite will confirm …."

Demidov forced himself to draw in a calming breath now, realising that he was on the verge of losing control, however, he was incensed that _**this **_disaster should have found its way to his door. He and his department were used to cleaning up after other people, but this was something different.

"Vlad, I apologize," Demidov lowered his voice now and made a concerted effort to try to contain his anger.

The young Army Colonel seated on the other side of the desk was an old family friend, someone he had been fond of as a boy and had found useful as he got older and progressed through the military ranks. He was honest, reliable and trustworthy, as well as being a good friend.

When the younger man had branched out into intelligence and espionage, Demidov had been delighted to welcome him into his department.

"But you have no idea what we are facing here. And, I repeat, it is_** imperative**_ that all material from the satellite be retrieved, no matter what its condition …."

"Material, Comrade?" Nikitin frowned, picking up on something in his boss' voice now, feeling an ominous shiver run down the length of his spine.

He was used to the kind of dirty missions that their department were handed down from on high. That was their purpose, to clean up when others messed up, to tidy up loose ends and destroy any evidence that might point to Soviet intervention in international disasters.

"What material?"

"I have no idea, Vlad. That is as much detail as I was given," but the look on the older man's face revealed that he had his suspicions and that they did not bode well.

"I do not understand, Sir. I thought we were talking about the Pathfinder Satellite?"

"Indeed we are, but, as far as I recall word at the time was that the wretched thing was put up there for more than just surveillance. It was planned as a pioneer, the first of many in a new offensive," Demidov explained, reaching out for another cigarette which he lit and then drew on deeply before continuing.

"It should not have been permitted. There were many who were against it from the start because as usual, it was not very well thought out …. But …."

He took another drag on his cigarette.

"Other voices were louder and more persistent," he let out a deep, ragged sigh, expelling blue grey smoke with it, and now it was Nikitin's turn to feel uneasy.

Demidov paused to take another deep draw on his cigarette.

"Dammit, we must get the wretched satellite back here, Vlad, without delay."

"Sir …."

"The Americans must _**never **_be allowed to get their hands on it, Vlad. Do I make myself clear?"

"But …. But …." The young Army Colonel stammered, confusion etched into his handsome features and pale blue eyes.

Demidov let out a deep sigh, expelling a fresh cloud of blue grey cigarette smoke into the atmosphere between them.

"I know little about the other reason for putting that thing up there, Vlad, but, how shall I put it …. I have been made aware that there is more at stake here than even I am permitted to know, more than just revealing our interests to the Americans. I do not know what, my friend, or I would tell you. I can only guess at what else might be involved …."

And now the younger man was surprised to see something akin to fear in his old friend's eyes, and he experienced a moment of blind panic and anxiety as the wildest and craziest thoughts flashed through his mind.

"They meant to turn it into some kind of …. Weapon?" Nikitin swallowed hard, trying to get a hold of him self.

Demidov gave a brief, non committal half shrug.

"I heard the rumours way back when the satellite was launched …. I don't know anything for certain, my friend, but, I have a feeling that for the sake of my mental health, and yours, we are better off _**not knowing **_the full story here. However, we have been given the responsibility of cleaning up this mess, and we cannot fail, my friend."

Demidov sighed deeply once more and ground out his burned down cigarette in the ash tray with the others.

"All is not lost, just yet. I am told that the satellite was sturdily constructed and the contents well protected from the cold and rigors of space. Our best guess is that it will crash to earth somewhere far from populated areas, one blessing at least …."

"Where?"

"Somewhere in the Arctic Circle, American territory, naturally …."

Demidov, his tone derisive, gave a frustrated sigh.

"Somewhere on the polar ice cap, just north of Alaska. I am assured that the capsule is well insulated and was constructed to survive a heavy landfall landing. And that is where you come in, Vlad. It is because it may have survived in tact that we need to get it back quickly, and I need you to get someone up there to retrieve it, or if it has been destroyed, to dispose of the debris, the photographic, radar and computer equipment, before the Americans get wind of the failure."

"But surely they will be able to track Pathfinder's re-entry, just as easily as we can?"

"Pathfinder was very small and compact. It is our hope that the Americans will identify it as a meteorite or space debris, nothing of interest to them."

"Where exactly will this thing fall to earth?"

"Here …."

Viktor Grigorovich Demidov pushed aside his over flowing ash tray to reveal a map already opened up on the desk before him, and he reached out with a darkly nicotine stained index finger, placing it down heavily on a spot on the map, right at the very top of the world.

Vladimir Iosifovich Nikitin leaned in closer, peering down at the splash of white on the map and let out a deep sigh of relief as he noted the longitude and latitude co-ordinates.

"I see you recognise it."

There was now a ghost of a smile twitching on Demidov's lips as the younger man raised his eyes from the map to look at him once more.

"Indeed I do. I should do, Comrade. Those co-ordinates are etched into my brain. Whiteout is not far from there …."

Whiteout Station, an internationally funded and multi-nationally manned civilian research station, was located just outside the Alaskan boundary of the ice cap, and because of the international interest in what natural resources might one day be located in the North Pole, Nikitin knew that they already had an agent working undercover as one of the scientists there, as did Demidov.

Nikitin was not personally involved in the day to day supervision of the man in situ, but he had overall supervision of the department that was. He had weekly reports of the man's findings delivered to him personally and was responsible for counter signing the man's orders from week to week.

There had, thus far, been little of interest to Nikitin, or to the Kremlin for that matter, but it was still a relatively new project and something might yet come of it.

Nikitin knew that it would not be difficult to get a message through to their agent on the station, during one of his routine calls 'home'.

"Yes, it seems that fortune is on our side, Comrade Demidov. "

"Indeed, Vlad. I can, of course, rely on you?"

"Of course, Comrade! I believe our man is due to make routine radio contact in the next few hours …."

"Good, good, then we are indeed fortunate. I will leave the details to you, my friend, but, there is one thing I must caution you on," Demidov reached out to take another cigarette from the pack on his desk and lighting it impatiently, drew deeply on it.

"Tell your man what he is looking for, by all means, and caution him against being discovered, to take all reasonable care and to get out of there as quickly as he can, but don't over play it. No need to unnerve the man unnecessarily. Frightened men make mistakes; draw unwanted and unnecessary attention to themselves. Am I making myself clear?"

"Yes, Comrade."

"Do not fail me, Vlad. The Motherland is depending on us. The Americans must not be allowed to get their hands on that satellite, because if they do, I fear that it could mean more than the increased prospect of nuclear war …. It could spell the end, for all of us!"

/a\

**_Whiteout Station - The Arctic Circle._**

**_Somewhere on the Polar Ice Cap, Northern Alaska._**

**_Day Three – Monday, February, 13th, 1984._**

**_Mid afternoon._**

"Storm's cleared," Dr Gregory Chandler was grinning broadly as he made his way down the narrow corridor that ran the length of the station, the main thoroughfare dividing the accommodation and recreational blocks that made up one of the two main buildings of Whiteout Station and which the residents had labelled Broadway.

Walking toward him from the other direction was Dr Sven Sorenson, a tall, broad shouldered Swede who had twinkling blue eyes and very blond hair, and he greeted the British geologist, Chandler, with a friendly wave as he continued to close the gap between them, his destination the radio room at the far end of the corridor.

"Forgive me for not getting excited, my friend, but we both know that it is only a temporary situation."

"Cynic. If it brightens up enough later, I'm thinking of organising a game of footy, out on the ice. You up for it, old man?" Chandler asked as the big Swede drew level with him, and he had to turn sideways on to allow the bigger man to pass, sucking in his chest and stomach to make more room.

"I'm not sure my knees are up to it," Sorenson smiled at the Brit.

Chandler was a decent enough fellow.

Pale of complexion, tall and lank, with a mop of fine brown hair, that was always falling forward over his brow and into puppy dog brown eyes.

Always cheerful and jovial, trying to find something to be positive about, or crack a joke about, Chandler was probably one of the most well liked and respected members of the scientific community that made up the different projects at Whiteout Station.

He had a dry sense of humour and could be relied upon to diffuse any awkward or anxious moment with a well timed off the cuff remark, guaranteed to raise a smile and release any tension.

"I assume you mean soccer, not that pale imitation of rugby our American friends call Football!"

Both men chuckled at this.

Whiteout Station was presently populated by representatives from many nations, Brits, Swedes, French, Australians, Germans, Norwegians and Danes, but they were all out numbered by the American contingent, who never let anyone forget that this was their home soil.

"Naturally. I'll put you down as goalie, shall I old chum?" Chandler grinned as Sorenson squeezed past him all the way at last and he was able to relax his chest and belly muscles. "I take it you're heading to the telecommunications shack?"

"Yes, actually I'm running a little behind schedule …"

"Won't keep you then," Chandler acknowledged.

Radio time was at a premium, with twenty odd people clamouring to use it, and they all had a strict schedule to adhere to. If you missed your slot, be it reporting in to whatever body was providing your funding, or a call home to family, you had to wait until it was your turn once more, unless it was a dire emergency.

Chandler was aware that the big Swede's wife was in the last stages of her pregnancy with their first child, and knew that Sorenson was naturally concerned to know how she was getting on.

It was bad enough that he was so far away from her at this time, but Chandler guessed that it must have been even more difficult for the big Swede, not to actually be able to speak to his wife directly, reassuring her that he was ok and that he was indeed thinking of her.

There was no direct communication with the outside world, except through the radio and messages relayed via Nome, and they were sporadic at best, because of the restrictions on time and power usage, so when the weather threw a fit, as it was inclined to do, it threw the communications schedule into chaos.

"Would you mind getting a long range weather forecast and updates from base while you're at it?" The Brit asked now, knowing that it would kill two birds with one stone. "Skies are clearing for now, but we all know how quickly that can change …."

Chandler had his own reasons for wanting to know how big a clear weather window they could expect, and this now drew a knowing smile from Sorenson.

"Sure. I'll bring it to the dining hall. I hope you have a cast iron stomach, Greg, because it's Jean-Claude's turn to make dinner …." The burly Swede reminded with a grimace now. "I just saw him rattling those pots and pans in the kitchen …."

"Oh God, why don't we just evacuate the place now had have done with it! Tell them it's a medical emergency, which it damned well will be if we have to eat any more of the Frog's cuisine …. I thought I smelled smoke!" Chandler smirked now.

This was another rota that they all strictly adhered to, the preparing of the meals, everyone having to take their turn in the kitchen, and all having varying degrees of talent in that department, and of course, varying tastes and likes and dislikes.

"What is it tonight?"

"Whatever it is, Greg, it will be Cordon Bleu …." Sorenson raised the index and middle fingers of his right hand to his lips and gave an exaggerated kiss to thin air.

"Cordon Bleu, more like ruddy prep school dinners! Damn, I do believe we're all out of Pepto-Bismol too!"

"Perhaps you should tell the CMO when she returns, to bring a barrel of the stuff!"

Both men shared another gentle smile, and then Chandler stepped away from Sorenson, allowing him to continue on his way down the corridor, whistling softly to himself as he too made his way back up Broadway, heading back to the lab where he was analysing a new set of readings from the few samples they had managed to get the previous day, in between the deteriorating weather and the mishap with the drill bit, and analysing the seismographic readings he and the blasting crew had collected that morning.

That and backing the data up to his computer hard drive.

It was the only constructive thing that he could do with himself while the weather had been so foul, and until the new drill bit arrived to replace the one that they had broken out on the ice the yesterday.

The second one they had broken in as many months, he reminded himself with a wry smile.

One replacement was already on order and with a little good fortune and a clear spell of weather, would be aboard the supply plane, along with all the other supplies and equipment they had requested, and the sumptuous Chief Medical Officer.

After waiting for Chandler to disappear at the other end of the corridor, then double checking that no-one else was around, Sven Sorenson entered the radio room and bolted the door behind him.

He sat down heavily on the swivel black leather and chrome chair before the huge, powerful radio and immediately reached out to begin fiddling with the numerous dials on the console before him, altering the transmitting frequency and channel to the secure frequency he needed to use to make contact with the outside world.

It took a few minutes, the equipment issuing forth bursts of intermittent static and whines and whistles, electronic white noise, the remnants of the last storm still affecting the equipment, the wind still buffeting the transmitting and receiving masts out there on the ice, however, he turned the dials and knobs some more, until he got a clear signal and immediately picked up the beeps and whistles that were the password he needed, being transmitted in Morse code.

Sorenson immediately reached out for the heavy earphones, not wanting anyone to be able to eaves drop on the conversation, knowing that if anyone overheard his side of the proceedings it would seem pretty routine and mundane, reporting his findings to his university backers and enquiring as to his wife's health, all carefully coded to disguise the fact that he was actually reporting to and receiving instructions from his contact from the Motherland.

After the burst of Morse, he did not have long to wait to hear the familiar male voice on the other end of the now secure line, the transmission being scrambled and jammed by the Russian submarine currently secreting its self somewhere under the ice on the Russian side of the Arctic Ocean, and as he listened, with mounting excitement and trepidation, his heart rate increasing and his palms beginning to sweat, Sorenson realised immediately the importance of the task he was being charged with, and it's significance, both to the Motherland, and to himself.

If he pulled this off successfully, it could mean quite a significant promotion, away from this wretched freezing white hell, and perhaps a chance to spend a little time with his parents in Leningrad, before going on to a new posting.

The conversation concluded, after taking a moment to assess what was required of him, trying to formulate a plan of action, Sorenson drew in several deep breaths and then set about resetting the dials on the radio, tuning the frequency back to the one used by their headquarters back in Nome, Alaska, then he put in a call, giving a general status report and requesting a long range weather forecast from Katie Morgan, who quickly relayed the information back to him, along with two pieces of news that he knew would please everyone.

There was an expected thirty six to forty eight hour window of good weather forecast, which meant that the supply plane could get in to deliver much needed supplies and equipment, and that, all being well, and if she could time it just right, Dr Leigh Roland would be onboard, back after her recent compassionate leave following the death of her father.

Sorenson knew how pleased that would make Gregory Chandler.

Sorenson was also aware that it would not give him much time to accomplish his mission and be ready to go back on the plane when it returned to Nome.

If Moscow's information was correct, and the satellite was expected to make it's re-entry before nightfall this evening, he would just about have enough time, but it could be a close thing.

"Bad news, old bean," Gregory Chandler greeted Sorenson as he walked into the Recreation room/dining hall, about twenty minutes later. Chandler was at the counter, pouring out strong coffee into a fat blue mug and waved the coffee pot at the burly Swede, who declined by shaking his head gently.

"Jean-Claude burned down the kitchen?"

"No, Cobber, that would be _**good**_ news!"

This remark came from Shane Preston, an Australian microbiologist who chimed in, grinning from ear to ear. He was seated at one of the laminated tables, a mug of coffee before him and papers strewn out around him, graphs and water temperature readings and the like.

"I'd rather eat bush tucker than another one of the Frog's burnt offerings!"

"Footy's off," Chandler set down the coffee pot now and reached out for a can of evaporated milk, adding a splash to his coffee to both color it and sweeten it at the same time.

"Out voted by the yanks again, I'm afraid. They are, as we speak, breaking out the ice hockey equipment and taking bets on who will be brave enough to stand in goal for our side! Oh well, it should be a laugh, if nothing else …."

And they could all do with one about now.

"So, what gives in the outside world?" Preston asked, eager to know what was happening beyond this uniform white, ice waste land.

"Oh, you know, same old same old …." Sorenson shrugged.

"How are things back home?"

"They just told me that Anna had called them, frantic that the doctors think that she should have a caesarean section, just to be on the safe side," Sorenson grew solemn now. "They are concerned about her blood pressure. She is very scared, and she wants me to come home. So, I had better get in there to see Dr De Wit and request some leave of absence. They want to know how soon I can get there so they can schedule the procedure," he gave a deep sigh.

"Then don't let us keep you, pal,"

"There was some good news from out there …."

"Yeah?"

"Sweden beat England 3 – 1 in a friendly in Stockholm," Sorenson grinned broadly now and watched the smile slide from Gregory Chandler's handsome face.

"Bloody hell, I don't call that being friendly, chum. Just you wait until the next World Cup!" Chandler sneered. "Is that the weather forecast?" He suddenly noticed the scrap of paper in the Swede's big paw.

"Sure," Sorenson held it out to the Brit now.

"This looks more like surfin' weather than ice hockey weather! Time to dust off the old bikini!" Chandler threw back his head and roared with laughter as he realised the implications of the forecasted fine weather.

Maybe she would be coming home, at last ….

"Here you go, chum, better get in there and make nice to Dr De Wit. He'll be pleased about that forecast, means he can plan the itinerary for this little pleasure cruise up to the end of the week. Tell him he can put me down for the shuffle board on Friday!"

"I think you will have other things on your mind, come Friday. Supply plane will be able to get here, and we both know what that means!"

"Soft toilet tissue and real eggs instead of that damned powdered stuff …." Preston got into the mood now and tried to smother a guffaw at the precious look on Greg Chandler's face.

"You should be all set to hitch a lift home, just in time to see little Sven make his grand entrance …."

"And Dr Roland should be on that plane too. They say that she has been chomping at the bit to get back here. If she can get to Nome before Wednesday, my guess is she will try to bully the pilot into taking off in a blizzard!"

"Poor bloke, wouldn't want to be in his shoes!"

"That's Leigh, always in a hurry …."

"I wonder why that is?"

"Could it be that she is missing a certain charming and handsome British geologist by any chance?"

"It's a bit soon, don't you think?" Preston speculated now, although he hated to burst Chandler's bubble. He had been noticeably grumpy and not quite his usual self since the Chief Medical Officer had taken her compassionate leave almost a month ago.

Preston would also be glad to see Leigh Roland as she was his assistant, and she kept him on his toes. He had begun to fall behind on some of the paperwork since she had been gone, and he would be glad to have her calm efficiency whipping him back in to shape, as well as her gentle sense of humour and her wicked smile to brighten up his day.

"Her father only died two weeks ago, right?" Preston asked now.

"Right," Chandler confirmed. "But, if I know Leigh, which I do of course, she probably just wants to get back here and throw herself into her work. It hasn't been easy for her. She and her father were estranged for a very long time, and then, to discover that he was dying …. It will be good for her to get back here, amongst friends," he gave a soft, wistful sigh.

"I knew that she was keen to get back, but the last I heard, she was fuming because she was being delayed in Los Angeles, problems getting some of the equipment that Dr De Wit requested. She was still hoping to get to Nome today or tomorrow though. Guess she didn't make it yet."

"If she planned to get there in time to make the supply plane, I wouldn't take any bets on that particular blonde not getting her way!" Preston chuckled.

"That's my girl!"

Gregory Chandler watched now as the burly Swede silently took his leave and exited the dining hall, heading down the hallway to Dr Wilhelm De Wit's office, a small frown marring his handsome brow.

Something didn't feel quite right about the Swede's sudden need to get home, despite what he had said about his wife's health concerns.

Sorenson was a pretty even tempered sort of chap and not inclined to show extremes of emotion, but one might have thought that he would be a little more concerned, or even excited at the prospect of impending fatherhood, Chandler mused silently, as he took a sip of his coffee.

Still, what did he know about having babies, he reminded himself.

He only knew how he would feel if he were in the other man's shoes.

He hadn't realised just how close Anna Sorenson was to her due date, and if Leigh had been here, she would have set him straight with the medical facts.

Naturally, his thoughts now turned to Leigh Roland, the Chief Medical Officer, the pretty natural blonde Australian, in her early thirties, who had made such a devastating impression on him just over two years before, and a gentle smile began to curve at his lips.

He really was a lucky sonofagun.

Truly blessed.

Having gotten to know her, he knew just what it meant to her to trust him, to reach out to him ….

To offer him her heart in return for his.

There was something about Leigh that had immediately melted his cool British reserve along with his heart, although, he recalled now, it hadn't been the most auspicious of meetings, her natural inclination being to distrust and shut out everyone and everything, which had made it hard to get to know her, and her indifference, and complete lack of encouragement in the romance department had made it even more difficult for the shy, inexperienced Brit to know if he was actually making any progress in winning her heart.

However, he had been determined that win her heart he would, no matter how cold and prickly she was, and he had persevered, soon coming to realise, the more he spent time with her, that she had suffered some terrible tragedy, some devastating trauma in her past that had affected her deeply.

She preferred to keep the world at arm's length, not allowing anyone or anything to get close, and not making any effort to reach out to anyone either.

The Ice Maiden had been her well deserved nickname back then, despite the fact that it was in complete contrast to the way that she looked.

Cool, aloof, detached, introverted and withdrawn.

Seemingly unreachable.

However, Gregory Chandler had persisted, using his boyish charm and humour to win her over, that and appealing to her innate caring and compassionate doctor's nature, playing on his need to have someone take him in hand and take care of him.

_**Thank God it had worked!**_

Finally, she had capitulated, but there had been numerous times when he had doubted that he would ever be able to get through her tough exterior and reach the warm, vibrant and incredibly loving woman within.

Leigh was an attractive woman, tall and slender with hair the colour of spun gold and amber eyes, shrewd and intelligent and wise, like an owl, or a jungle cat, and it was such a pity that she had felt the need to hide her true self away all those years.

It was her eyes that had given her away in the end, for in unguarded moments, they had revealed to him her warmth and humour, her sharp intelligence, and her sadness and vulnerability.

She had quickly endeared herself to him in so many ways she could never have understood, despite herself, and Gregory Chandler had known that he would never give up trying to convince her that what he felt for her was real, and deep rooted and enduring, all the time praying that one day he would see love, for him, in her unusual eyes.

It had taken time, but eventually he had convinced her.

Even when she was silent, thoughtful, pre-occupied and introvert, Leigh Roland was still better company than some of the scientists he was currently sharing Whiteout Station with.

His own personal ray of sunshine.

He missed her.

He was worried about her.

Her father's recent death had hit her hard, much harder than she might have expected, especially as they had not spoken for over twelve years, before the old man had finally reached out to his daughter, knowing that his health was deteriorating and that he did not have much time to build bridges and become reconciled with his only child.

He hated the idea of her having to deal with Bruce Roland's death, tying up the loose ends of his life, and her grief all alone.

If she was dealing with it at all, that was.

Leigh had a natural tendency to close down, shut herself off completely emotionally. It made people think that she was cold, hard, unfeeling and uncaring, when in fact the reverse was true. She was over sensitive and felt things very deeply, and the Ice Maiden façade was a long established way of protecting herself from more hurt and heartache.

He was aware now of her past, aware of the tragedy that had touched her and made her retreat from life at such a young age, existing, functioning on some level, but not really engaging in life, not really living, and certainly never allowing herself to be loved, for with that came the responsibility of loving in return.

He understood what drove her now, what made her tick, but even now there were still times when she would not even let him in.

She knew that he loved her, and he knew that she loved him too, but sometimes, Leigh reverted to type and shut herself off, the only way she could deal with things when the world crowded in on her and she felt that things were beyond her control.

It certainly made life interesting, even if sometimes, it was much harder work than it needed to be.

_**God bless her!**_

He wished she would hurry home.

Suddenly Chandler's attention was abruptly returned to the here and now by a commotion coming from outside, loud excited voices shouting.

_**Damned Yanks …. **_

_**Excitable lot!**_

All that ruckus over a friendly game of ice hockey, Chandler thought sourly, assuming that it was his American colleagues giving in to a little high spirits after days of being cooped up inside the station.

However as the excitement continued, he allowed his gaze to be drawn to the large single window over his left shoulder and spotted several figures, indistinguishable because of the heavy cold weather gear they were wearing, in the snow bleached wastes just beyond the main compound boundary, rushing about excitedly and waving their arms over their heads, indicating toward the uniform gunmetal grey skies overhead.

Watching their antics for a moment, Chandler realised that something was going on out there, and a frown began to mar his handsome features once more as he realised that their attention was focused on something specific in the heavens over head, as they continued to point upward and shout excitedly.

_**What the ….**_

Curious, Chandler set down his mug of now tepid coffee and sauntered over to the window, followed by an equally curious Shane Preston, who grinned at the British geologist as he pressed his face up against the Perspex window, his warm breath instantly fogging it up.

When their colleagues outside realised that they had finally drawn some attention from inside, they began to wave excitedly and shout louder, and curious to know what was happening, Chandler cracked the window open, just a shade, to hear what they were shouting.

"Hey man, come take a look at this!" The man closest to the window, breathless and grinning excitedly from ear to ear, stumbled a little closer to them.

Greg Chandler now recognised the man as Tyler Keegan, an American metallurgist whose interest at Whiteout Station was studying rock samples for signs of precious metals in the rock layers under the ice.

Keegan moved a little closer, his face partially covered by the fur lined hood of his heavy dark winter Parka coat as he turned away from them again to fix his attention on the skies overhead.

"Steady on old chap …." Chandler grinned back. "What's all the noise about?"

"Come look for yourself, Chandler."

"What is it, Keegan? Little green men from Mars?" Preston teased, but this made the big American turn around quickly, still grinning, eyes shining brightly from the cold and from excitement at what he could see streaking across the sky.

"Maybe. Something up there is coming down real fast!" He was still grinning, what they could both see of his face, flushed, lips pulled back revealing twin rows of perfect white teeth.

"Could be a meteorite. If it comes down close to here, I say we go out there and find it for sure!" He stumbled, slipping in the snow and ice beneath his feet, throwing out his arms to keep his balance. "Give us something different to look at. A rock from outer space …."

Keegan rushed away then to join the others who were clumped together right on the far boundary, heads back, eyes tracking the fiery object they could see streaking across the sky.

"You coming?" Preston asked, already reaching out for his Parka which had been thrown over the back of a nearby chair.

"No thanks. Way too exciting for this dull Englishman to stomach. Besides, the generators are due to switch over shortly so I need to go and make sure that the computer has finished saving my data before the power fluctuation. It has a nasty habit of crashing if there is a drop or surge in power and I lose everything. Can't afford to ruin another day's work, and, I suppose for the sake of appearances, I should at least look like I'm earning my fat salary!"

"Bloody hell mate, that thing really _**is **_close!" Preston yelped as he cracked open the nearest door and stuck his head out, eyes focused on the flaming object rushing across the unbroken grey of the sky, leaving a smoky trail in it's wake, losing altitude rapidly.

Chandler opened the window just a little wider and leaned out, catching the object as it hurtled toward the horizon and the distant snow tipped hills, aware as he did so that more and more of his excited colleagues had rushed out on to the ice to get a look at what was causing all the fuss, like a bunch of kids on Christmas Eve, bright wide eyes fixed on the heavens to see if they could catch a glimpse of Santa Claus and his reindeers skimming over the chimneys and rooftops.

It did indeed look like a fiery shooting star, and just for a moment, inexplicably, Chandler felt his legs go weak beneath him and his heart trip erratically in his chest, the breath suddenly catching in the back of his throat, and he caught himself wondering if it was a primitive reaction, as old as man, to the unknown.

An omen of impending doom ….

_**Don't be ridiculous!**_ He told himself sternly.

It was a totally irrational reaction for a well educated man of science like himself, but he could not deny his sudden unease, as he watched Shane Preston dashing out onto the snow now to get a better view.

Chandler watched the visitor from outer space with mixed feelings, as it continued to fall rapidly to earth, calculating from it's speed and rate of decent that it would indeed make landfall relatively close to their location, and that it would not be beyond the realms of possibility that Wilhelm De Wit would agree to someone going out there to try to find it.

It was far too good an opportunity in terms of scientific research to waste.

However, Chandler himself was also not stupid enough to volunteer for such a crazy expedition.

The days were getting longer, yes, but when darkness fell it did so swiftly and completely, all encompassing blackness, bringing with it rapid temperature drops and often, unpredicted high winds and snow storms that gave the station its name. Zero visibility blizzards that caused the effect of total whiteout.

Chandler could already see the tell tale signs of a change in the wind, little eddies of the recently settled powdered snow being lifted, swirling over the compact ice on the ground, and he let out a deep sigh.

He had lived up here at the top of the world just long enough to know that nothing was predictable or reliable, especially the weather.

Everything changed so quickly, you had to keep your wits about you at all times, if you wanted to survive.

Chandler remembered the long range weather forecast that he had just glanced at before Sorenson had taken it through to Dr De Wit and knew that forecasts didn't always mean anything.

Ma Nature had her own mood swings, and could be perverse and cantankerous just to spite them.

He recalled that they were due to get a thirty six to forty eight hour reprieve from the storms, but, he also recalled, the predicted clear weather window wasn't due to begin until dawn, and it looked as if it was going to be another wild night.

In his opinion, it would be risky to allow anyone to go out beyond the compound boundary at this time of the day, on a wild goose chase, but, everyone was so excited, and it really was a tremendous opportunity to learn more about the make up of objects that fell to earth infrequently from outer space.

De Wit would perhaps weigh up the pros and cons of waiting until the morning, against the possibility that all trace of the thing would be obliterated overnight.

Like excited children rushing out into the first snows to throw snowballs and build snowmen, they would all clamour for the glory of being chosen to go out and find the meteorite.

_**But not this cowardly Brit!**_

No, Chandler decided, he would get his kicks out of the thing if and when some _**other **_fool brought it back safely to the compound, and he had his chance to analyse it along with everyone else.

In the mean time, as he had told Preston, he had work to check up on, and the generators were due to change over any second so he had better hustle if he was going to make sure that everything was safely backed up to his computer hard drive in time.

/a\

**_Los Angeles, California._**

**_Dr Leigh Roland's hotel room._**

**_Day Seven – Friday, February 17th, 1984._**

**_Late afternoon._**

Dr Leigh Roland, seated on the bed in her clean, comfortable, light and airy, but soulless hotel room, absently raised her left hand to her brow, using the lightly freckled back to blot the perspiration dewed there, then directed her index finger to her lips and began nibbling on the neatly manicured finger nail in frustration.

She held the telephone receiver in her other hand, pressed close to her right ear, as she listened to the continuous drone of the line ringing out, with a heavy heart.

She was fast running out of patience, having spent the best part of the afternoon trying to reach someone at Whiteout Station's home base in Nome, Alaska.

Roland stopped nibbling long enough to lower her hand to glance down at the simple gold watch with the thin black leather strap, that graced her left wrist, and sighed deeply, knowing that as there was only an hour in time difference between here and Alaska, Nome being one hour behind Los Angeles, there was no excuse why someone shouldn't be manning the telephone.

Still, it was possible that whoever was on duty today could be tied up with other things, after all they were short handed up there, and people often had to double up on duties as it was.

_**Calm down ….**_

She chastised herself sternly and chewed on the nail some more, before realising that she was ruining an expensive manicure.

Throughout the afternoon, each time she had dialled the familiar number, Leigh Roland had gotten an automated message that the line was temporarily out of order, which she knew sometimes happened if weather conditions were particularly bad, or atmospheric conditions were not favourable.

Sometimes, however, the message kicked in by accident, just to be contrary, and the base staff didn't know what had happened until someone finally managed to get past the message and actually spoke to a human being.

After a short break for a brisk walk around the hotel grounds, needing exercise and a little fresh air, Dr Roland had returned to her room and tried again, this time getting a continuous busy tone for over an hour, and now, after making a few calls to her people at UCLA to see if there was any way she could get access to a high powered radio so that she could try to reach Whiteout Station direct, and just running into a brick wall there too, now the line was ringing out continuously.

_**C'mon someone, answer the darned thing!**_

As if it wasn't bad enough that there was no direct telephone link to Whiteout Station, and she had to rely on the staff at the home base in Nome to relay messages to her colleagues, and back from them, it was so damned frustrating when no-one picked up the telephone!

This call was particularly important.

She needed to inform Nome that she had finally gotten together all the supplies and equipment that she had been made responsible for gathering together, including that wretched titanium drill bit that Gregory needed to continue his work, and needed to know what the long range weather forecast was for the next few days, so that she could plan her trip back to Nome's airfield, so that she would be there in time for the next spell of clear weather and be able to join the crew of the supply plane on its next scheduled run.

The last thing that she wanted was to arrive in Nome and then find herself grounded for another week because of bad weather.

Ever practical, Leigh Roland knew that if that was the case, she could better use the time here in Los Angeles, tying up the loose ends to do with her father's estate, his house and his belongings.

His attorney was dealing with his finances, but the house needed to be made secure until such a time as she decided whether to place it in the hands of a realtor to sell or to put up for rental, or if she wanted to live there herself.

Most of his furniture and all of his clothes had been disposed of to various charitable organisations, but there were a few other, precious things that she had been unable to part with that needed to be placed in storage.

And then there was his car, and making sure that the other small bequests he had made in his will were carried out correctly, and that the stone mason understood exactly what she wanted carving on her father's headstone ….

If there was a major storm front brewing up there at the top of the world, Leigh knew that she could better spend the time putting things in order here, so that there would be no more need for her to return.

Once she left Los Angeles this time, she knew that it would be a long time before she would be able to face returning, so she needed to get as much sorted out as she could, rather than leave it for her father's attorney to attend to in her absence.

In truth, Leigh had little or no intention of returning to the city of Angels for anything except to beg for more funding for her work, or to submit her reports to the project backers at UCLA and NASA.

As Chief Medical Officer at Whiteout Station, aside from making sure that everyone stayed as healthy as they could under the circumstances, and being on hand in case of a medical emergency, Leigh was studying the effects of prolonged living in Arctic conditions on the human mind and body, as well as assisting her Aussie colleague, Shane Preston with his microbiology work, and her sponsorship for her own work had come, in part, from her old alma mater, UCLA, where until six months ago, she had been involved in lecturing on epidemiology and toxicology.

Being back here made Leigh very uncomfortable, raking up memories that she would prefer to forget.

Memories associated with years of alienation and loneliness from her beloved family. Memories of the shock and disappointment she had felt when discovering that through all the time she had been working here, her father had been so close.

Leigh had been born and raised in Australia, but after becoming estranged from her family, she had travelled extensively, after gaining her medical degree, mostly in Europe after gaining a junior post with the World Health Organisation, but then she had come to the United States to further her medical experience in the study of toxicology and contagious diseases, joining the prestigious team of doctors working to identify new viruses and bacterial infections and to prevent epidemics around the world, at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, Georgia.

Eventually she had been offered the teaching place at UCLA, and from that she had been selected for a project backed by NASA to study the effects of prolonged exposure to extremes of climate on the human body, and from there, she had been allocated a place at Whiteout Station.

It was while she had been at UCLA that she had learned by accident that her estranged father was living just a few miles away, after seeing his photograph in the social pages of the newspaper, attending some political rally or fund raiser for one of the candidates it was hotly tipped would wind up as the next Governor of California.

Hope had flared in her heart, and she had tried to make contact with her parents back then, but the brief, succinct telephone conversation she had shared with her father had only highlighted the gulf between them.

His tone had been abrupt and clipped, his manner so cold, so remote, his position as unyielding and hard and unforgiving as she had remembered, Leigh had known immediately that nothing had changed. She had known that she was still outcast and alienated, and so, she had thrown herself into her work, and told herself that she was better off without her family in her life ….

However, her father had had one last shock in store for her, when he had finally told her that he had moved here seven years ago, after her mother had died, and Leigh had been devastated to realise that he had not even made any kind of effort to locate her and let her know the news.

Her mother had been gone for seven years, and her father had made a new life for himself in a new country, and she had had no idea, until three months ago, when he had made contact again, writing to her, via her team at UCLA, to ask if next time she was in Los Angeles, she might be prepared to see him.

It was then that he had told her that he had pancreatic cancer, and not much time left. He begged for her forgiveness and asked if she would be prepared to build bridges, and despite the fact that she was extremely hurt to learn that he had known that she was in Los Angeles all this time, and that he still had not tried to contact her, as a doctor she understood all too well the nature of his disease and what he was facing, and realising the enormity of what he had been asking, and what it must have cost him, Leigh had found her self agreeing.

She had needed the reconciliation.

It had been difficult, uncomfortable, having to watch a man who was ultimately a stranger, but who was still her father, dying, knowing that even though he had reached out to her after all these years, it was not because he had forgotten what had driven them apart, or that he had forgiven ….

Nor because he loved her.

No. It was purely because he did not want to die alone.

And Leigh had finally had to accept that she was not there for him at all, but for herself.

She had needed closure.

She had needed to draw a line under it, so that she could finally move on.

He had failed her, just when she had needed him most, and although she could no longer find it in her to be angry with him, or to hate him, nor could she find forgiveness for him in her heart either.

Now, with her father gone, there was nothing to keep her in Los Angeles any longer.

Gregory Chandler, and more immediately, Whiteout Station, were her future, home, from now on, at least until that project ended, and they were forced to find alternative employment elsewhere, preferably somewhere much further south, and boasting temperatures considerably higher than 40 below!

A wry half smile tugged at Leigh's lips now as she allowed her gaze to wander to the photograph she had placed on the nightstand beside the hotel's single bed, that first night, after her father had died, unable to bear the thought of sleeping in his house alone. The hotel was clean and functional, but Greg's photo had made it feel less austere and empty.

_**Dratted man, he would probably assume that by 'somewhere further south' she meant another lunatic project in Antarctica!**_

Losing patience with the endless drone of the unanswered telephone line, Leigh set the telephone receiver back down in its cradle, resisting the urge to slam it down, and let out a deep sigh.

She knew that her impatience and frustration stemmed mostly from the fact that she wanted to get away from all the painful memories being resurrected in her heart and mind, that and of course, her father's illness and death, but, most of all, it was because she missed her dopey Brit!

A year, or maybe even six months ago, she would not have believed just how much he would come to mean to her.

They had first met two year ago, when Gregory had been teaching at UCLA and she had thought no more of it than when she had met any other work colleague, but somehow he had wheedled his way deep into her beleaguered heart, with his charm and his daft sense of humour and his outrageous Englishness, and now she found herself wondering how she could possibly face another day without him.

Every moment that she had spent away from him in the last month had been pure torture.

The fact that he had fallen in love with her had not come as a surprise to Leigh, after all he hadn't been able to hide the fact that he was taken with her, and without being conceited, she was aware that she had all the qualities that men admired. A pretty face and a good figure, a wicked sense of humour and keen intelligence, but, she was unique amongst women in so much as she said little, keeping her thoughts to herself.

Over the years, she had found herself admired by many men, however, it had always been her choice to keep them at arms length, allowing no-one close, because then she would be opening herself up to more disappointment and ultimately, rejection.

No, to Leigh Roland, the miracle was that she had actually begun to fall in love with him too, for she had long thought that emotion dead in herself.

For so long, to Leigh Roland, the idea of loving again meant betrayal and sorrow and heartache, and she had had more than enough of that in her young life.

She had no idea why it had suddenly been different with Greg, except that he was an exceptional man, persistent and charming, funny and endearing in a boyish kind of way, despite the fact that he was ten years older than she was, and he had brought out the maternal instincts in her, appealing to her need to take care of him and tidy up after him, as well as the loving, caring compassionate, and yes, passionate woman, that dwelled within the ice façade that Leigh Roland usually presented to the world.

He had also been a tower of strength and support to her during her reconciliation with her father, and during his illness.

All her colleagues at Whiteout had been supportive and tolerant of her need to keep returning to Los Angeles, aware of her father's deteriorating health and that he needed to be hospitalized from time to time, but Greg had been the one who had held her and comforted her ….

Loved her ….

When she had gotten word that her father was back in hospital this last time, and that he was not expected to survive, he had wanted to come with her, to be there for her, and although she had appreciated the offer, she had gently made him understand that it was something that she needed to do alone.

She wasn't sure, even now, if he had really understand the need in her, but he had respected her wish to face it alone, and she had promised him that when she got back, he would have her undivided attention.

Her need to return to California had proved fortuitous for Dr De Wit, Whiteout Station's Administrator, for there had been a list of supplies and equipment that he had needed, which she had gladly offered to collect and ship back.

With another deep sigh, she lifted the telephone receiver once more and, decision made, dialled the number for her father's attorney's office wanting to catch him before he left for the weekend, and set things in motion with regard to her father's house, the outstanding bequests and his car, informing him of her plans to leave town after the weekend.

She simply could not face staying one more day beyond that, so no matter what the weather was like up there at the top of the world, she would put up with being cooped up with everyone at Nome, no matter how long it took the weather to clear.

At least it would not be Los Angeles, with all the pain and heartache she associated with it, and she would be just a little closer to her precious Gregory.

After concluding her telephone call, she rose carefully from her perch on the edge of the bed and walked to the adjacent bathroom, leaning over the sink and splashing cool water on her overheated cheeks. After patting them dry with a soft, fluffy white towel, she scrutinized her face in the mirror, not liking what she saw, the over brightness of her eyes and the flush on her cheeks, then she stuck out her tongue and pulling a sour face at what she saw, groaned, quickly taking it back into her mouth.

_**Just what she needed right now, to be coming down with something. **_She thought miserably.

Drawing in a deep breath, she helped herself to a couple of Aspirin from the bottle she had placed on the glass shelf over the sink, swallowing them down quickly with a gulp of water, but somehow they seemed to get lodged in the back of her throat and she had to take several more gulps to push them down at last.

She opened her mouth and using the mirror over the sink, scrutinised the back of her throat this time.

_**Say ah ….**_

_**Yuk!**_

_**She was definitely coming down with something …. **_She thought to herself sourly, as she noted the deep reddening of the back of her throat and tongue.

_**Nice diagnosis doctor!**_

Probably just the beginnings of a head cold, but with the ache she could feel in her lower back and the burning sensation she could feel between her shoulder blades, and just under her ribs, and the nausea she had been battling on and off all day, she wouldn't be surprised if it turned into flu.

_**Damn.**_

_**Never mind that now!**_

She wasn't going to allow feeling a shade under the weather to stop her from getting herself and the supplies back to the top of the world as soon as she could.

She returned to the bedroom and used the house telephone to order a light dinner from the room service menu, not because she was hungry, but because it was something to do to kill a little time, then turned on the television to briefly flick through channels, and then turning it off in disgust, went back to the nightstand and finally reached out for the telephone and again dialled the familiar number for Nome, crossing her fingers, praying that this time someone would pick up.

Shortly, her prayers were answered and a familiar female voice spoke hurriedly and breathlessly into the telephone receiver at the other end of the line, sounding anxious and harassed, Leigh noted immediately.

"G'day Katie, its Leigh Roland …."

"Oh, hello, Dr Roland, I guess it must have been you who was calling a little while ago …."

"Sure was."

"Sorry about that, doctor, but I was on the radio to Elmendorf, the USAF base …."

Leigh Roland's heart sank like a stone as she heard the words.

"Did something happen?" She demanded in sharp tones, impatient and anxious now. "Katie, did something happen at Whiteout?"

"We don't know for sure yet, doctor. Their radio is out. The weather got real evil up there, and we haven't been able to raise them."

"Still!" Roland exclaimed.

She knew that when she had called the base at Nome yesterday morning with an update on her progress, Katie had told her, along with the disappointing news that she had missed the supply plane this week, it having left the previous morning, laden down with goodies for the besieged scientists, that the weather was closing in again and that they were experiencing difficulties with communications between Whiteout and themselves. However, Leigh had assumed that in the interim, Nome would have been able to raise them.

"How long have they been out of radio contact?"

"Since the day before yesterday, doctor."

"Wednesday! Bloody hell! What about the supply plane? Didn't they radio in to say they had left?"

"That's just it doctor," Katie Morgan's voice wobbled slightly and Leigh Roland suddenly felt her heart skip a beat in her chest. "The pilot radioed in to say that he was leaving, bringing back Dr Sorenson because his wife was going to have the baby early …."

A small sob escaped the other woman's lips now, and Leigh Roland's knees suddenly gave way and she sank down heavily on the single bed behind her, as her stomach lurched violently and bitter bile rose up into the back of her throat.

_**Oh no …. **_

_**No …. No …. No ….**_

"The plane never made it back, Dr Roland …."

_**Oh God ….**_

"That's why I was on the radio to Elmendorf, requesting an aerial search, but they say that the weather is just too bad. All their aircraft are grounded, indefinitely …." Katie Morgan's voice trailed off then, and Leigh Roland knew that she too was thinking of those poor men.

The pilot, co-pilot, Sven Sorenson, and his poor wife, widowed even as she labored to bring their child into the world.

Leigh Roland suddenly realised that her whole body was shaking violently.

_**No, dammit, get a grip**_!

She told herself sharply, knowing that she could not allow herself to think about that now.

"And you still can't get anything from Whiteout?"

Leigh Roland's voice quivered just a little as she asked the question, and drew in a shaky breath, and she found herself hoping that Katie would realise that she was genuinely upset about what might be happening to her friends, the people she cared about, up there so remote and isolated, at the top of the world.

"No, doctor …."

_**Dammit, this just couldn't be happening!**_

_**Please God ….**_

_**Please, let them be alright ….**_

_**Let Greg be alright ….**_

_**Oh God, don't do this to me!**_

_**Pull yourself together, right now, dammit! **_

_**Getting hysterical isn't going to help!**_

She needed to get up there, as fast as she could, but no matter what she did, Leigh knew that she would come up against all the same obstacles as the Air Force.

Not even she could tame the Arctic weather.

_**Greg!**_

_**Oh my darling ….**_

"Keep trying, Katie …."

"Of course I will!" The other woman responded impatiently now, but Leigh Roland could hear the grief behind her impatience.

"I'm sorry, Katie, I know you're doing your best," Leigh Roland softened her voice a little now, knowing that the young woman on the other end of the line was shocked, frightened and probably way out of her depth, having to cope with everything alone.

"What's Dr Gordon doing?"

Bernard Gordon was the Director of Nome home base and it was his responsibility to oversee everything to do with the smooth running of Whiteout Station.

No doubt he was doing everything physically possible, but would also be limited to what actions he could take because of the weather conditions.

"He tried calling in all the favours he's owed, but …."

"Until the weather clears, no-one can help," Leigh Roland solemnly completed the sentence for her.

"Ok, look, Katie, I'm coming up there, as soon as I can arrange it. I have the things Dr De Wit requested, and I will try to arrange for them to get shipped up to you, but right now, what is more important is trying to find out what exactly the situation is up there at Whiteout, and getting someone there ASAP," she reasoned calmly, drawing in another shaky breath.

"I'll try to get to Nome as soon as I can, so that the first chance we get to send a plane up there, I can be on it. They might need medical assistance …."

_**God forbid!**_

_**Oh damn, what the hell is going on up there!**_

_**Calm down!**_

_**Think, woman, think!**_

"I'll let Dr Gordon know you're coming."

"Thanks. I'll let you know my actual travel plans when I've finalised them, and I'll work something out about the supplies, but Katie, if you hear from Whiteout,_** call**_ me, straight away, please."

"Of course I will doc. I promise."

"Thanks …."

Leigh Roland set down the telephone receiver, and noticed the tremor of her hand as she did so.

For just an instant, she felt tears stinging at the corner of her eyes as she imagined some horrible disaster having befallen Greg and the others up there at Whiteout Station, then again told her self to stop that right now.

She had to keep her head.

She had to be calm, and composed, because is something really was wrong up there at Whiteout, she was the only one who could convince someone that her friends and colleagues might need help, that they needed to get someone up there straight away.

She didn't know anything for certain, and more than likely it would turn out to be nothing more sinister than the weather playing havoc with the radio equipment.

However, there was one truth that she could not get away from.

The supply plane's failure to return to Nome could mean only one thing.

It must have come to grief somewhere on the return journey, and that probably meant that everyone aboard was dead. If not killed in the actual impact, the effects of exposure to those kinds of temperatures and climatic conditions, over night would surely have finished the job.

Again her thoughts turned to poor Anna Sorenson.

_**Oh God, that poor, poor woman ….**_

Leigh Roland didn't know the woman, had never met her, but she could strongly sympathise with her, and she found herself praying that someone would hold off from telling the woman that her husband was dead until she had safely delivered their child.

At least she still had some hope that Greg was alive, that he was ok, but for poor Anna Sorenson there could be no such hope.

Despite all her efforts to control herself, Leigh Roland suddenly gave a loud, dry, heaving sob, and buried her face in her shaking hands, unable to rid herself of the feeling that something catastrophic had happened up there at the top of the world.

_**Not again, please, not again ….**_

_**I couldn't bear it!**_

_**Greg …. **_

_**Oh my love ….**_

Dragging in long, ragged breaths, she forced herself to regain her composure, racking her brain for options to solve her dilemma of getting to Whiteout Station quickly, despite the weather, and then it came to her, like a flash of inspiration, and dashing away her tears she reached out to the nightstand for her car keys, scooping them up in one hand and her purse in the other, she hurried toward the door.

It took her thirty minutes of negotiating late afternoon Los Angeles traffic to get back to her father's house, and she was frantic by the time she got there, rushing up the short paved driveway like a wild woman and fumbling with the key in the front door lock, before stumbling over the threshold and hurrying into the study, to his much loved old mahogany desk that she had not been able to part with, because it was one of her strongest childhood memories, from the den in their home back there in Sydney, to where she knew her father had kept his address book.

She almost pulled the heavy desk drawer out of its housing as she yanked it open and fished around inside, pulling out a small black leather bound book at last and quickly found the right page.

_**Thank God!**_

She dialled the number with shaking fingers and waited for someone to pick up on the other end of the line.

_**Please God, let him be there, let him be there!**_

_**He **_was Senator Samuel Gilroy, an old friend of her father, the man whom he had been helping to raise funds for, a man she vaguely recalled from brief visits to her home during her childhood, the man her father had spent years interned with in a Japanese POW camp in Hong Kong during the second world war, but whom she had not seen in more than twelve years, until a few days ago at her father's funeral.

There, he had clasped her hand lightly in his own, gazed sincerely into her eyes and told her in a solemn voice that if she needed anything, anything at all, she should give him a call.

She hoped that unlike many other politicians, Sam Gilroy was still the man of his word, the hero she recalled from childhood, who had befriend her father and helped him to survive in the camp.

The telephone was answered on the fourth ring, and with her heart pounding erratically in her ears, instantly recognising the male voice on the other end of the line, Leigh Roland decided that now was not the time for small talk.

"Senator Gilroy, this is Leigh Roland. I'm sorry to be so blunt about this, Sir, but I could really use your help about now …."


	2. Chapter 2

**_Chapter One._**

**_Knightsbridge, Headquarters of The Firm._**

**_Day Ten – Monday, February 20th 1984._**

**_Mid morning._**

"How much longer is this going to take?" Stringfellow Hawke let out a deep, shoulder raising sigh of frustration, pinning his cool blue eyes on the tall, slender, dusky skinned beauty clad from head to toe in pristine white.

Marella, seated on the other side of the desk, gazed back at Hawke with undisguised amusement, her dark, obsidian eyes twinkling as she noted the heavy scowl pulling down Hawke's undeniably handsome features.

"That would depend no how soon you want these replacement armaments," she allowed herself a gentle smile, used to the young man's austere façade.

She had come to know Stringfellow Hawke, and his older companion, Dominic Santini, quite well in recent weeks, and she was getting quite adept at measuring his moods.

Today, Hawke was moody, brooding, impatient, petulant and frustrated, revealing to the apprentice physician in her the fact that he was tired.

She knew that even if he would never say it, the last mission in Airwolf had taken a lot out of him, not physically, but mentally and emotionally, due mostly to the conflict and tension that had preceded it, between himself and Santini.

Stubborn, unreasonable and proud, Dominic Santini had taken umbrage when Hawke had voiced his concerns over a particularly risky and, in his opinion, hare-brained stunt that the older pilot had been considering, nothing to do with Airwolf at this point, but very much to do with Santini's private business, Santini Air.

Hawke still had the bruise to prove it.

Marella had had to look quite close, but it was there, a small patch of blue and purple, turning into green and yellow, marring his noble, defiant and also very stubborn chin, where Santini had made his feelings known to his young friend, lashing out with his considerable fist.

Marella had been pleased to see that they had patched things up, and after taking the debriefing from that last mission in the past hour, she now knew that it was due mostly to Hawke's offering Santini his first chance to pilot Airwolf, while Hawke did the crazy stunt in Santini's place, which had turned out to be a front for a bunch of felons to try to steal a shed load of gold out of the truck Hawke had been hired to land the chopper on top of, while it travelled at 60 miles per hour.

Peace, order and equilibrium restored to their relationship, they had worked as a team, bringing the situation to a satisfactory conclusion, but, Marella could not help noticing that Dominic Santini had not been his usual ebullient, jovial self this morning.

He looked tired too.

Obviously, being at odds with each other, the tension and the strain, had caused both men a few sleepless nights and it would take both of them a while to get over it.

Hawke had been in a hurry to get away, rushing through his part of the debriefing, but the last straw for him had been the reams of paper she had placed before him, all requiring his signature, requisition forms for replacement ammunition and armaments for the various weapons systems aboard Airwolf, that he had requested.

She had been able to see the dark thoughts running through Hawke's mind as he scrawled his flamboyant signature on the relevant dotted lines and then set the pen down on the desk between them with a resounding thud.

_**Maybe I shouldn't be so damned heavy handed!**_

_**It's so darned easy to keep my finger on the trigger, at the time, but then comes the aggravation of having to request replacements, not to mention having to wait for them to arrive, and the time involved in replacing them aboard Airwolf!**_

Silently, Marella had found herself agreeing with Hawke's silent assessment for often, it was his own lack of self control that proved costly, all around.

However, she had also had to silently concede that it was because of his unstinting and unquestionable loyalty and his unfailing ability to get the job done, no matter how distasteful, that her boss, Archangel, had chosen to do business with Stringfellow Hawke.

He could pull the trigger, no matter what, if that was what was required.

She had been mildly amused by Hawke's and Santini's obvious discomfort in having to deal solely with her today, instead of Archangel.

Michael Coldsmith Briggs III, aka, Archangel, and The Deputy Director of Special Projects was otherwise engaged, firstly having to attend a routine full Committee meeting, after which he had sought her out, apologising for interrupting her preparations for the Airwolf teams' scheduled debriefing and for the fact that she would now be required to handle it alone.

Not that it was beyond her capabilities, his smile had added for good measure, but had also revealed that he knew just how difficult Hawke could be to deal with when he set his mind to it.

Something had come up, he had told her, a hastily arranged appointment, but the only other piece of information he had had time to confide to her was that it had been handed down to him, personally, from Zeus, and that in so doing, their mutual boss had given explicit orders that Archangel 'co-operate to the fullest degree'.

Marella had been intrigued.

She had also been a little peeved at being left out of the proceedings, but, she had silently consoled herself with the knowledge that sooner or later, Archangel would need her assistance, and then all would be revealed.

"Are we done now?" Hawke growled sarcastically, pushing back his chair and rising agilely to his feet, indicating to Marella that as far as he was concerned, their meeting was concluded.

However, before she had a chance to utter the witty response that was already on the tip of her tongue, the pristine, slim-line white telephone on the desk beside her rang out shrill, and this drew her beautiful, exotic, dusky features down into a perplexed and irritated frown, for she had left explicit instructions that she was not to be disturbed.

With only one exception.

"Excuse me, Hawke. I must take this …." Marella apologized as she reached out to lift the slender telephone receiver from its cradle and directed it to her delicate right ear.

Stringfellow Hawke let out another huge, shoulder raising sigh of impatience and turned to regard his companion, Dominic Santini, with more than a hint of irritation and frustration. Santini's only response was to raise one shoulder slightly, in a shrug.

"Yes Sir, they're still here. We were almost done …." Marella responded in husky tones to the voice on the other end of the line, and from her manner and the way her dark obsidian gaze had suddenly returned to settle on him, Hawke began to realise that the voice must belong to Archangel.

This piqued his curiosity.

What had occurred that meant that the thus far elusive man in white, who had been too busy to attend the debriefing, suddenly had time to see him now? Hawke pondered silently.

"I'll bring them right along, Sir," Marella concluded the telephone conversation and set the receiver back down on its cradle, looking just as puzzled as Hawke himself.

"Trouble?" Hawke enquired laconically, lazily arching his left eyebrow as he regarded her curiously with deep, sky blue eyes.

"Archangel apologizes for delaying you, but he would appreciate it if you could spare him a few minutes in his office …."

"I thought he was too busy to see us …." Dominic Santini reminded sarcastically now.

"He asks that you 'indulge him', just this once. It seems it is possible that he might have another mission for you."

"So soon?" Santini shot Hawke an expectant look, but Hawke shot him a look back that told him to be patient.

"Apparently," Marella sighed softly, pushing back her chair from the desk and rising gracefully to her full height.

"So what gives, Marella?" Hawke drawled now. "What is really going on here?"

"The honest answer to that, Hawke, is, I don't know," she sighed again, reaching for the hem of her pure white sweater to pull it down straight over the waistband of her white linen pants.

"There was a Committee meeting first thing this morning, and off the back of that, Michael informed me that Zeus had arranged for some people to meet with him, and that he should give them our 'fullest co-operation'. That is all I know right now."

"So I guess The Firm's idea of 'fullest co-operation' includes offering the use of Airwolf," Hawke surmised.

"I guess so. She is one of our more important and special resources," Marella grinned now.

"Only if _**I**_ _**choose**_ to _**indulge**_ Archangel," Hawke reminded, sarcastically. "We just completed one mission," he reminded, albeit one that had originally started out as one of Dom's crazy stunt agreements. "And believe it or not, both Dom and I do have a life outside of here. Besides, you're forgetting. Airwolf is not exactly mission ready …."

"The least you could do is hear Michael out," Marella retorted irritably. "Of course you still have the final word, but, this is coming right from the top, Hawke. From Zeus himself. I don't need to remind you what that could mean …."

"I guess it wouldn't hurt to hear what the man has to say, would it, String?" Santini chimed in, somewhat sheepishly for him. "We're here, and it might mean that we could get those replacement weapons sooner …." He reasoned, and Hawke could see from the expression on his old friend's face that Santini was eager for them to work together on another Airwolf mission.

The old guy had really enjoyed getting his hands on Airwolf's flight controls, even if he had forgotten that she had landing gear not skids and had tried to set her down without first dropping the gear.

He was chomping at the bit to get another chance, but Hawke also knew that Santini was keen for them to work together as a team, so that they could get things back to normal between them again.

Things were less tense, less strained between them, but not quite on an even keel just yet, both men carefully weighing up every word and deed, instead of relaxing, both still wary of each other's feelings.

Maybe another Airwolf mission was just what they needed.

However, Hawke did not want Archangel to think that he was the one calling the shots, and that all he had to do was snap his fingers and he and Santini would come running.

Still, he mused silently, there was little point in having Airwolf if they didn't use her when there was a genuine need.

It would be criminal to leave her in the Lair, idle and rusting away because they were too cautious about using her, knowing that doing so too often would bring her to the attention of other interested parties, who would want to try to take her for them selves.

But it was already too late to worry about that, Hawke reminded himself.

The secret was well and truly out.

On the other hand, it would be foolhardy to roll her out at the drop of a hat, simply because they could.

It was a delicate balance.

However, Stringfellow Hawke suspected that Michael Coldsmith Briggs III would never ask if there wasn't a genuine need.

Zeus on the other hand, was an unknown quantity.

Stringfellow Hawke let out another deep sigh, this time of resignation, aware of both Marella and Santini regarding him with expectation.

Dominic was right.

What would it hurt to hear the man in white out?

It might prove interesting, and it would definitely give him a chance to get focused once more.

"Then I guess we had better not keep the Deputy Director waiting …." Hawke drawled sardonically, and was rewarded with a huge grin of relief, and appreciation from Dominic Santini.

/a\

Michael Coldsmith Briggs III set down the telephone receiver and sat back slightly from his desk, relaxing back in his chair as he gave his guests a perfunctory smile.

They were an odd pair, he found himself thinking, not for the first time since they had been shown into his office almost an hour ago.

However, whilst he did not think that they were close, from the body language that they had been displaying since their arrival, there was some kind of long standing relationship between them.

Senator Samuel Gilroy, Archangel was already acquainted with, as the man sat on the Funding and Appropriations Committee that allocated the Firm's annual budget.

In his late sixties, Gilroy was still an attractive man, tall and lean, but with strong broad shoulders, he had intelligent hazel eyes and a firm handshake.

The man had a way about him that immediately set one at ease, probably the clear steady gaze and the ready smile, as well as the soft baritone voice and the sense that he was genuinely interested and was really listening to what you had to say.

Archangel was also keenly aware that the Senator was an old, personal friend of Zeus' and that that was obviously how he and his companion had found themselves invited out to Knightsbridge, and why his boss had almost had an apoplectic fit as he had ordered Archangel to 'co-operate to the fullest degree'.

_**Oh to have friends in high places!**_

The Senator's companion was a very attractive young woman, a natural blonde with a shapely figure and the most unusual colored eyes that Archangel had ever seen before. She was reasonably tall and of medium build, and he had guessed her age to be somewhere in the early thirties.

She had chosen to dress smartly in a lightweight chocolate color corduroy skirt which fell to her calves, a thin cream sweater with short cap sleeves and flat heeled brown sued ankle boots, because she did not need the added height that stiletto heels would afford her.

Her beautiful golden hair had been left loose to fall in a fine straight curtain around her shoulders and on down to her waist and hips, so long she was almost sitting on it and it glittered like spun gold in the sunlight streaming in through the window behind her whenever she moved.

She also had the most attractive and subtle Australian accent Archangel had ever heard.

However, as he had watched the young woman throughout the meeting, Archangel had gotten the sense from her that, aside from the fact that she was undoubtedly concerned and anxious about the reason why she was here, and the more he heard, the more he had to admit that she had every right to feel that way, whilst she was acquainted with the Senator, she was extremely uncomfortable with the fact that she had had to draw on that acquaintance to call in a favour.

As the meeting had progressed Coldsmith Briggs III had been unable to stop him self from noticing that there was a delicate flush to her cheeks and the way that her fingers intermittently drifted up to her forehead to massage at a spot on her brow, over her eyes, and could not help wondering if she was feeling quite well.

He knew from what she and the Senator had just explained to him that she had every right to feel anxious and concerned, and he could see the fine lines of worry and fatigue around her unusual tawny eyes, but that did not account for the unease and discomfort she was obviously feeling, so much so that he had been moved to offer to open a window and fetch her a glass of water, a few moments before making the call to Marella.

However Dr Leigh Roland had politely declined both.

Now, as he waited for Marella to escort Hawke and Santini to his office, and for the coffee he had requested to be brought in, Archangel allowed himself a moment to assess how Stringfellow Hawke would react to the proposition he was about to put to him.

It wasn't so much a mission, as a favour.

A personal favour to Zeus.

But, Archangel knew that if Hawke was of a mind, he would not let that stand in the way of his turning the mission down, or at least making life very very difficult, for everyone.

However, Archangel had a little more faith in Stringfellow Hawke's sense of fair play and his sensitivity to human suffering these days, having witnessed both, first hand of late, and he felt sure, once he had explained the situation to Hawke, the young pilot would see it for what it really was.

A mercy mission.

Archangel now noticed the Senator glancing at his watch, an anxious expression on his face, and he realised that the politician must be a very busy man, and that now that he and Dr Roland had explained the situation to him, there really was no need for either of them to stay.

Especially if it turned out that Hawke was in one of his more stubborn and determined moods.

If Hawke was going to go out of his way to make things difficult, Archangel would much prefer that he didn't have an audience to play to.

"I'm sorry, Mr Coldsmith Briggs, Leigh, my dear, but I really can't stay any longer. I have a dinner appointment with the Governor this evening, and if I don't leave soon I'll miss my flight to Sacramento," Gilroy explained, pushing back his chair and rising to his full height of well over six feet, offering Dr Roland his hand to assist her to her feet too. "Is there really any need for us to stay any longer?" He directed the question to Archangel now.

"No Senator, I just thought as you were here, and they were here, you might like to meet …. Never mind. I am sure that we can find a satisfactory way to accommodate Dr Roland's needs …."

Archangel too rose stiffly from his seat and extended his hand out across his desk to both Dr Roland and then Senator Gilroy, suspecting that it was no bad thing that his two guests would not be around to witness Hawke's disapproval at the proposed use of Airwolf for this mission.

However, as he was saying his farewells to his visitors, there was a soft rap on Archangel's door, which immediately drew three sets of curious eyes to the doorway, as Marella, followed firstly by the tall, imposing figure of Dominic Santini and then the slighter, shorter but more athletic figure of Stringfellow Hawke, strode purposefully into the inner sanctum.

"Ah, gentlemen …. Doctor, Senator, may I introduce Dominic Santini and Stringfellow Hawke …."

As his attention was drawn to Hawke and Santini now, Archangel had no idea how what happened next came to pass, however, out of the corner of his good right eye, he suddenly became aware of movement, realizing immediately that it was Dr Leigh Roland, swaying alarmingly, as her legs seemed to suddenly give way beneath her.

As he watched her crumple, as if in slow motion, Archangel found himself thinking that if she had seemed flushed before, now her face was white, completely bloodless, her unusual golden eyes wide in her ashen face, before rolling up and disappearing into the back of her head, lids framed by long, fine, golden tipped lashes fluttering closed as she folded, pitching forward in a dead faint.

Fortunately, Senator Gilroy's reactions were still very good, and realising that something was dreadfully wrong with his companion, he reached out to save her, catching her upper body before she hit the ground completely, and supporting all her weight for a moment, guided her backward, directing her back into her seat, his big, strong hands holding her shoulders to keep her from tumbling forward once more as her hair hung in a golden curtain, concealing her face now.

All of this happened as though in slow motion, while Hawke and Santini looked on in understandable confusion and concern, and Marella gently pushed her way past each of them so that she could get to the insensate young woman in the chair.

Amidst the confusion, Julie-Ann, the receptionist whose post was at the desk in the lobby outside Archangel's office, suddenly arrived in the doorway, bearing a tray laden with coffee cups, and suddenly Archangel came to his senses, taking control of the situation, deciding that they should clear the room, to give Dr Roland time to recover and Marella a chance to check her over and make sure that she wasn't serious ill.

"Gentlemen, please, let's give the lady a little room to breathe …"

He waved his arm in front of Santini and Hawke, hoping to shepherd them both back the way that they had come, but, as he did so, Archangel could not fail to see the shocked look on Stringfellow Hawke's face.

The young man could not seem to take his eyes off the insensate young woman slumped in her seat, deep, sky blue eyes wide in a face that was almost as white as Dr Roland's, but before he had a chance to open his mouth and voice the question that was suddenly burning in his mind, Stringfellow Hawke quickly snapped out of his trance, his expression growing tight with rage and his cheeks swiftly suffusing with hot color, as he span on his heel and stormed out of the office, with Dominic Santini hot on his heels, looking equally as confused as Archangel by the younger man's rapid retreat.

Archangel limped hastily after them, wanting to make sure that they didn't wander off too far, but as he emerged from his office doorway into the lobby outside, he caught a glimpse of Hawke marching down the corridor, back ramrod straight, long stride quickly eating up the distance as he headed for the bank of elevators around the corner at the end of the corridor.

"Hawke!" Archangel called out, but the younger man continued without acknowledging him, his anger evident in his posture and his stride as he marched on, disappearing around the corner, leaving Archangel and Santini exchanging curious glances, as Senator Samuel Gilroy stepped out into the lobby behind them, followed by Julie-Ann, who set down the tray of coffee on the low table outside Archangel's office and silently returned to her desk.

"Is Dr Roland alright?"

Archangel turned his attention to Senator Gilroy now, still confused by Hawke's very strange reaction to what had just transpired in his office, but needing to continue to act like the concerned host.

"She was just coming around," Gilroy explained, moving to the tray of coffee on the low table and helping him self to a cup, with a less than steady hand, Archangel noted, and he realised that the older man had obviously found what had just happened to his companion most upsetting.

"I knew she wasn't feeling too well, but she told me it was nothing, just the beginnings of a head cold," The Senator explained. "And naturally, I accepted what she told me, because, well, she is a medical doctor after all," he took a welcoming sip of his coffee and Archangel also picked up a cup of coffee now and turning to offer it to Dominic Santini, took him lightly by the elbow and steered him away out of ear shot of the Senator.

Both men shared another concerned glance.

"Who is that?" Santini asked as he accepted the coffee cup from the government man, a frown tugging at his brow as he watched as the dark suit clad older man paced anxiously whilst sipping at his coffee, trying not to keep glancing at his watch. Santini vaguely recognised the face, but could not place it.

"Senator Samuel Gilroy," Archangel sighed, responding absently, then pulled his thoughts together and pinned his one good steel grey eye on Santini. "What about Hawke?" He demanded on a hissed breath now. "He won't leave will he? I really need to speak to him on a most important matter …."

"Don't worry about him. He can't go too far," Santini assured wryly. "I have the keys to the Jeep."

Santini patted his pants pocket and offered the man in white a half smile, but the look in his eyes told Archangel that the older man had no more idea of what was going on inside Hawke's head than he did at that moment.

"He probably just needed some air too. He'll be back."

The three men stood in silence, sipping their coffee, awkward and ill at ease, and then, after finishing his coffee, Dominic Santini set the cup back down on the tray, and hitching up his pants around his ample belly, he turned to Archangel.

"I'll go see what's keeping Hawke …." Archangel nodded his gratitude and then watched as Santini ambled down the corridor and finally out of sight.

/a\

Raising the brim of his baseball cap to rub at the thinning grey hair just above his forehead, Dominic Santini paused in the doorway of Knightsbridge's glass fronted main reception, and let out a deep sigh as his eyes sought and found his young friend, Stringfellow Hawke, sitting in the passenger seat of the patriotically painted Santini Air Jeep in the parking lot.

The young man had been something of a quandary to Santini for most of his life, but his behaviour inside just a few minutes before was even more unusual, because for the life of him, Santini couldn't figure why a woman suddenly falling into a dead faint would make the young man so damned angry.

_**Oh yes.**_

_**Angry.**_

Hawke was positively fuming.

Santini could tell from the rigid way he was sitting, bolt upright in the passenger seat, head still, cold blue eyes fixed straight ahead, staring unseeingly out through his mirrored aviators shades, features set in a tight, grim mask of fury.

But as to _**why**_Hawke was so angry, Santini was at a loss.

He had thought that the young man had gotten over his earlier irritation at being shunned by Archangel, having to deal with Marella, and the mundane procedures that had kept them here longer than usual, but at the mention of a new mission, he had seemed to brighten, just a little.

Oh yes, Hawke had flexed his muscles, feeling the need to remind Marella of just who was in control of the decisions over when to use Airwolf, but, Santini had seen that the younger man had quickly warmed to the idea of being at her controls again so soon. That he too relished the idea of a new mission, to focus their attention on, and to draw them together as a team once more.

And then suddenly, out of the blue ….

_**This.**_

But what exactly was this?

Santini had his doubts that he would find out any time soon.

When he got like this, so angry he could barely speak, Santini was rarely able to get to the bottom of what was eating at the young man.

One thing Santini was sure of.

His young friend was not angry with him.

Pushing open the glass door and hitching up his pants once more, Santini strode out into the sunshine and made for the Jeep, coughing loudly to clear his throat and to make Hawke aware that he was drawing close so that the young man could have a moment to pull himself together, however Hawke did not respond, did not move, he just continued to sit, rigidly, in his seat.

"You done taking the air?" Santini asked in a soft voice, close to Hawke's ear, deliberately avoiding having to look him in the face, because he did not want to see whatever it was that Hawke was feeling at that moment, etched in to his usually handsome, if solemn expression.

"Drive," Hawke snarled.

"We ain't done here yet, String …." Santini reminded.

"I said drive, dammit!"

"Hey, you don't order me around!" Santini bristled. "Michael is waiting on us back there. I sorta promised him you wouldn't run out on him."

"Then you can go right back there and explain to him why you had no right to do that," Hawke snarled again. "Give me the keys and I'll drive!"

"No way! Those are important people back there, String. One of 'em a United States Senator, no less! You said you would hear Archangel out …."

"I changed my mind," Hawke bit back.

"String …."

"Dammit Dom, are you gonna get in the Jeep and drive, or do I have to start walking!"

"What's gotten into you?" Santini demanded, reluctantly moving forward a little now so that he could see the younger man's face, and as he had thought, he did not like what he saw there.

Rage.

Pure and simple.

Unbridled fury.

The young man's face was so red Santini wondered if he was going to have some kind of fit, and his features were set so hard, stone like, unyielding, twisting his usually handsome and beloved face into something so ugly, it made Santini's heart skip a beat in his chest.

"String?"

"I won't ask again, Dom," Hawke hissed menacingly through clenched teeth. "Now drive!"

"I can't, String. I won't. I'm going back in there to hear Michael out. You can do what you like. Sit there and sulk, or start walking, I don't really care. When you get this mad, there's no reasoning with you. I know that, but what I don't understand is, what the hell happened back there that made you so damned mad in the first place! Is it me? Did I step out of line back there? Did I speak outta turn?"

"It's nothing to do with you, Dom …." Hawke again spoke through clenched teeth, his jaw locked, muscles working furiously along his jaw line.

"Then tell me! Talk to me!" Santini's voice was starting rise both in pitch and volume now.

"It's nothing …."

"Oh sure, that's why you're sitting there wishing you could tear someone's head off! Fine, but I ain't gonna stick around and watch you give yourself a stroke or a heart attack. You just sit there and have yourself a nice nervous break down while I go back and apologise to those nice people, and find out if the lady is feeling better!" Santini ranted now.

"Ya know, String, I've seen a lot of stuff from you over the years, but man, this is weird, even for you!" Santini turned to march away then thought better of it and turned back to glare at Hawke, who remained unmoved by his old friend's outburst.

"While you're sitting there, brooding, coming unglued and wishing all kinds of hell and damnation on the world and everyone in it, try to remember that you are a grown man, not a child, and that at your age, a temper tantrum is far from amusing, or cute!"

Santini leaned closer to Hawke, their faces right up close now, Santini trying to keep a reign on his own anger because the last thing they needed was another set to that ended with one or the other of them throwing a punch.

This time he might not be so lucky, Santini told himself, especially with the mood that Hawke was in at the moment.

The younger man might not be so inclined to keep his fists to himself this time around.

"I can't imagine what those people up there must be thinking right now! Maybe you got lucky and in all the confusion, they didn't notice, but I know Archangel did. What do you think he is thinking right now? Maybe he's wondering if he's done a deal with the devil? Maybe he's wondering if you are the right man to be having control over something as powerful and deadly as the Lady …. Did you ever stop to think about that, huh? Did ya? Did ya?"

Santini forced himself to pull away now, drawing himself up to his full height as he drew in a deep, calming breath knowing that he had given his young friend something else to chew over.

The possibility that Archangel might decide that he should no longer have control over Airwolf.

That their deal was void, and that the man in white would join the rank and file of law enforcement doing their best to separate Hawke and Airwolf.

That all bets would be off, and it would be every man for him self.

If that happened, along with losing control of Airwolf, Hawke would also lose any chance of finally learning what had happened to his brother, St John, not to mention the fact that he would find himself at the top of American's most wanted list!

They needed Archangel's protection.

They needed his benevolence and his indulgence, and in return, they got to fly the most modern, sophisticated, powerful and beautiful, kick-butt helicopter man had ever created.

His young friend had obviously lost sight of that.

"Those people back there have come to Archangel for help, and he in turn is looking to us to help him do just that. I can just imagine the kind of build up he gave them about us, about how professional, calm and poised we are, expecting us to show up and at least give the impression that we know what we're about. He certainly wouldn't expect you to go flouncing off in a huff for no apparent reason!"

He paused to draw in another deep breath and expelled it as a deep sigh, lowering his voice as he continued now.

"I know that you are better than this, kid. Whatever the hell it is that got to you back there, that's gotten you all fired up and spoiling for a fight, deal with it. Pull yourself together, and then get your ass in there, pronto! Show those folks that Stringfellow Hawke is a man they can rely on, and show Archangel that you haven't completely lost the plot!"

With that as his parting shot, Dominic Santini turned on his heel and marched back toward the glass fronted reception area, rolling his eyes heavenward in exasperation, as he tried to work out exactly what was wrong with his young friend, but still coming up blank.

/a\

In the passenger seat of the Santini Air Jeep, Stringfellow Hawke drew in a deep, shoulder raising sigh and forced himself to unclench his right fist, before he gave into the desire to pound it into the dash board before him.

Of course, he knew that everything that Dominic Santini had just said was true.

He was acting like a child, throwing an irrational temper tantrum, but for just a split second, Hawke had been transported back in time, once again that angry, frightened, shell shocked, grief stricken twenty two year old who had been forced to accept rejection for the first time in his young life.

Just when he had begun to hope that things might turn out differently for him, that he wouldn't always have to face life alone ….

He let out another deep sigh, bowing his head and squeezing his eyes tightly shut against the memories that were crowding in around him.

_**Dammit, he didn't need this right now!**_

Maybe he had been mistaken?

Maybe his eyes had deceived him?

A trick of the light ….

His imagination ….

After all it had been thirteen years ….

He hadn't allowed himself to think of that time for so long, sweeping it under the carpet and pretending that it had never happened ….

But there had been something about her eyes ….

Those unusual amber eyes ….

He had never seen eyes that color either before, or since ….

And he could never forget those eyes ….

He had spent so much time just gazing deeply into them …

Eyes the color of firelight.

Burning fiercely with life.

Blazing with love and desire and passion ...

For him.

_**Leigh.**_

_**Was it possible?**_

_**After all this time?**_

_**Was it really her?**_

Was he brave enough to go back in there and find out for sure?

Was he man enough to face up to her?

To finally find out what had happened, once and for all?

_**Dammit, he had to!**_

For one thing, what Dominic Santini had said about Archangel having doubts about the sanity in allowing him to keep control of Airwolf had been true.

She was his only bargaining chip, his ace in the hole, but if Archangel began to wonder about his mental health, about his stability, his ability to be calm and cool and rational and self controlled, then it would all go to hell, and he would find himself in deep, deep trouble.

Dominic Santini too.

Something else that Dom had said had also stung him, deeply.

_**He had flounced off in a huff ….**_

And yes, he _**was**_ better than this.

He was not a child, and he was the consummate professional when it came to flying missions, and he generally had much more self control than he had been displaying in recent days.

He was disgusted with himself.

And like it or not, he had to go back in there.

He just had to, if he was ever going to be able to look himself in the mirror again.

/a\

Upstairs, restored to his office and now seated behind his desk, Archangel regarded Dr Leigh Roland, now sufficiently recovered to sit, unaided, in her seat, sipping a glass of iced water.

She had recovered herself quite quickly, Marella had come to tell him, just after Santini had departed the lobby, and she had advised him that Dr Roland was feeling better, embarrassed, but well enough to leave with Senator Gilroy, after a brief trip to the ladies room to splash some water on her face.

Marella had also explained that after checking Dr Roland over, she had discovered that the doctor had a slightly elevated temperature and a headache, but Marella had had to concur with her own diagnosis, that it was merely the beginnings of a head cold, and that that, and the lack of sleep and the natural anxiety and stress that she was experiencing, had made her feel a little dizzy and light headed for a moment.

Dr Roland had returned, looking pale, but composed, a few moments ago, retaking her seat gracefully, and sipping at the water, in between reassuring Senator Gilroy that she was quite herself again now.

"My apologies, Mr Coldsmith Briggs …." She spoke in soft, alto tones, her Aussie strine just a little stronger and more noticeable, an obvious indication of her stress and embarrassment, Archangel reasoned silently, as he watched her finally placing the glass of water on the corner of his desk with noticeably shaking fingers and rising, a little unsteadily to her feet.

"I have delayed you and the Senator long enough …." She reached out across the desk to shake his hand one last time, and he was shocked to find those unusual, beautiful amber eyes so cold and empty, so flat and emotionless, when only a few minutes before they had been so full of compassion and concern and grief.

"Thank you for hearing me out. I'll wait to hear from you," she concluded in a low voice, withdrawing her hand from his.

"Don't worry, Dr Roland, I am sure that we will be able to assist you," Archangel assured, hoping that he sounded more confident than he actually felt, in light of Stringfellow Hawke's recent bizarre and unexpected reaction.

"Mr Coldmith Briggs, thank you for your time."

The Senator too rose from his seat and extended his hand across the desk to Archangel, then slipped his arm protectively around Leigh Roland's waist.

As they both began to walk slowly toward his office doorway, Archangel found himself wondering what had gotten into Stringfellow Hawke.

_**Just what had put that sickly look of shock on his face? **_

And how much longer he was going to have to wait for Airwolf's crew to return?

He couldn't help thinking that with the way that his day was going both Hawke and Santini had probably done a bunk.

However, as Gilroy and Roland finally exited, and as Archangel was just about to summon Julie-Ann, to ask her to run down to reception to see if the Santini Air Jeep was still in the parking lot, Dominic Santini chose that moment to saunter back into the office, pulling down the brim of his battered red silk baseball cap in polite acknowledgement of the departing man and woman as they passed each other in the doorway.

Hitching up his pants as he walked deeper into the office, Santini, threw Archangel a look that was meant to indicate that he had done all that he could to persuade Hawke to return for the meeting, but that ultimately, it was up to Hawke now.

/a\

Out in the corridor, just as he turned the corner leading from the bank of elevators, back to Archangel's office, Stringfellow Hawke came face to face with the elderly man and young woman who had been in Archangel's office a few moments before.

He came to an abrupt halt as the elderly man acknowledged him with a brief nod, but the woman stubbornly refused to even look at him, as she strode purposefully on toward the elevator, her chin raised in defiance, her unusual eyes fixed straight ahead.

However, Hawke found that he could not take his eyes off her, as he stared in dumb fascination, his heart racing in his chest, as she and the elderly man continued on to the elevator without so much as a backward glance.

_**No. There was no mistake ….**_

Hawke found himself thinking as he drew in a shaky breath and tried to compose himself once more.

_**Leigh ….**_

After all these years ….

Looking just as beautiful as he remembered.

Pale and anxious.

Scared and tired.

Older ….

But still beautiful.

And, no matter what everyone else believed, what excuses she had come up with in his absence, Stringfellow Hawke knew the real reason she had fainted was because she had recognised him too, and was just as shocked to see him standing there, as he had been to see her.

_**So what was that all about?**_

_**A guilty conscience? **_He thought sourly.

No doubt, sooner or later, he would find out, for he had a nasty feeling that she was going to feature prominently in the mission he was about to learn about from Archangel.

_**Maybe that was all the reason he needed to tell Archangel where he could shove his mission, and what he could do with his damned deal! **_

But then he would lose perhaps his one last chance to find out what had happened to St John, and that was something that he would not jeopardize, under any circumstances, so he had better pull himself together and get in there and reassure Archangel, or at the very least give him the impression that he was his usual self confident and professional self.

_**Leave the past where it belongs. **_

_**In the past.**_

_**Good advice, buddy, now see if you can follow it!**_

/a\

In his office, Archangel gave a deep sigh of frustration as he sat back in his seat and watched as Dominic Santini made himself comfortable in the seat just vacated by Samuel Gilroy, and it was at that moment that a tightly reigned Stringfellow Hawke chose to make his appearance, eyes cold, hard chips of ice, hooded, in a closed, emotionless face.

There was no hint of apology from the young man as he carefully lowered himself into the chair Leigh Roland had used during the meeting, and making himself comfortable, turned those hard, unyielding eyes on Archangel now, indicating to the man in white that it was time to get down to business.

"Gentlemen, thank you for coming."

There was just the tiniest hint of sarcasm in Archangel's voice now.

"I have asked you here because we have urgent need of you and Airwolf …."

Archangel gave a small sigh as he noted Hawke's glacial, impatient expression and his rigid stance, then pressed on.

"Tell me, what do you know of Whiteout Station?"

Archangel saw the frown knotting Santini's brow in response to his question, but was relieved to find a hint of recognition on Hawke's face, when he turned his attention to the younger man.

"I believe it's some kind of scientific project based up north …." Hawke drawled.

"Up north?" Santini immediately twisted around in his seat to gaze at Hawke and the younger man found himself struggling to maintain his stern, austere façade as he interpreted the look on his old friend's face now.

_**Oh no, not again! Why can't we ever get lucky and draw a mission to some place warm for a change!**_

"Way up north," Archangel filled in the ensuing silence. "The Arctic Circle to be precise. On the polar ice cap. Somewhere north of Alaska."

"Ah no …." Santini groaned expressively.

"What about it?" Hawke demanded gruffly now, ignoring Santini's reaction. "And what does it have to do with us? With Airwolf?"

"The lady who just left here is Dr Leigh Roland," Archangel explained, and was rewarded by a flicker of something unusual in Hawke's penetrating blue eyes that made him frown, briefly, as he watched the younger man swallow down hard now.

_**What was that all about?**_

_**Did they know each other?**_

Archangel mused silently before pressing on knowing that it was probably more than his life was worth to ask the younger man, especially the mood he was in right now.

"Dr Roland is one of the scientists currently based up at Whiteout Station. It is a multi national concern, established about six months ago, with civilian scientists from all over the world, funded by governments and various academic institutions," Archangel elaborated now.

"She has been on compassionate leave for a few weeks, a family matter, I believe, but was due to return to the station at the end of last week," Archangel began to warm to his subject and relaxed a little more in his seat now.

"Dr Roland had however, maintained contact with her colleagues on the station via their home base at Nome, Alaska, because she had been requested to gather some supplies and equipment and arrange for them to be shipped to Nome. She needed to keep appraised of the weather conditions so that she could time her travel back there to coincide with their supply plane's next trip to the station."

Archangel paused to take in a breath and scrutinized Hawke's expression, but it was once again hard and guarded, his eyes hooded and unreadable now.

"The weather is a major factor up there and they have to time supply runs between gaps in the storms. The weather also plays havoc with communications, so no-one was unduly concerned when they could not make contact with Whiteout. However, the supply plane made a routine trip during the last break in the weather, but failed to return as expected, and there has been no contact with Whiteout Station for six days now."

"You still haven't answered my question, Michael. What does that have to do with us? With Airwolf?"

"I was just getting to that," Archangel sighed impatiently, frustrated by the interruption. "Dr Roland has requested that we assist her to get back to Whiteout as soon as possible …."

"You called me in here because the lady needs a ride home!" Hawke exploded, his tone haughty, his expression one of outrage.

"Dammit Hawke, it's much more than that!" Archangel snapped back then clamped his lips together to stop himself from really losing his temper, silently counting to ten before continuing.

"Dr Roland is the station's Chief Medical Officer, as well working on her own research and assisting on another project up there, and after six days without any kind of contact, she has genuine concerns that something unfortunate has happened to her colleagues …." He explained in more reasonable tones now, angry with himself for allowing Hawke to goad him into reacting.

"So where does the Senator fit in?" Santini chimed in now, probably hoping to diffuse the tension between himself and Hawke, Archangel supposed silently.

"He is an old friend of her father's. I got the impression that she disliked having to ask him for help, but …. She was all out of other options. She can't get to Whiteout by conventional methods, and I guess she probably was hoping that he might be able to use his influence with the military, but, Senator Gilroy sits on the Firm's Funding and Appropriations committee, is a close personal friend of Zeus, and he knows all about Airwolf …."

"So it was his idea for her to come here?" Hawke demanded, scowling darkly now.

"Zeus' idea actually," Archangel sighed deeply, able to see quite clearly the younger man's irritation and disapproval.

"Last time I checked, I don't owe Zeus anything …."

"Hawke, what we are proposing is a mercy mission. For God's sake man, where is your compassion!" Archangel could feel his grip on his temper loosening again.

_**Lord, but the younger man could be so darned infuriating sometimes.**_

"Aside from the humanitarian aspect, the genuine fears that those people up there could be hurt, dying, in need of medical assistance …." Archangel paused to draw in another calming breath before continuing.

"There are other equally worrying concerns. Firstly, as I have said, the regular supply plane did not make it back to Nome. The pilot radioed in to say that he was leaving Whiteout Station and that everything was as it should be. The weather was clear and the forecast indicated that the storm front moving in would not do so until later in the evening, well past the time they were due to arrive at Nome airfield, and then, nothing …."

He paused for a second to take another small breath.

"Secondly, Whiteout Station is based in the Arctic Circle, close to, but not exactly in Alaska. Still technically American soil, but within spitting distance of Russian territory," he reminded the younger man now.

"So you suspect foul play?"

"We can't rule it out. We don't know anything for sure, but when Dr Roland raised her own concerns about the welfare of her colleagues up there, and pointed out that even taking into consideration the severity and frequency of the storms, six days without any kind of contact from them was unheard of …. Add that to the apparent loss of the supply plane on what should have been a routine milk run for them …. Well, finally, alarm bells began to ring. There are all kinds of inherent dangers in working in that kind of environment, Hawke, severe isolation sickness being one of them."

"She thinks they all went nuts and killed each other?" This from Santini now, who was unusually quick on the uptake for once, Archangel found himself thinking.

"It's a possibility, but there are other, more worrying possibilities."

"You think our Red friends learned about something the scientists up there were working on, or have discovered in Dr Roland's absence, and have decided that it was close enough to their own territory to lay claim to it," Hawke concluded gruffly, a statement not a question, Archangel noted.

"Maybe," Archangel conceded. "Agreeing to Dr Roland's request for assistance to get back up there seems reasonable enough to us. She is a medical doctor, and is the most logical person to send, without drawing unwanted attention to the project. She knows all the scientists up there, and they know her. They trust her."

"The point is, we need to get to the bottom of this, and quickly. Enough time has been wasted already, Hawke. I hate to say it, but it may already be too late to save those people up there …. Even so, we still need to know for sure what happened, and Airwolf is the quickest and safest way to get Dr Roland up there so that she can begin her investigation."

"Airwolf is not mission ready."

"For crying out loud, Hawke, you're hardly going to need her full weapons compliment for a mercy mission!"

"We are if the Russians really are involved in something dirty up there," Hawke reminded on a snarl.

"Then I will make sure that your ammunition and weapons requisitions get top priority. If I can get them to you within twenty four hours, how soon before you can have them installed and Airwolf ready to leave?"

"I haven't agreed to do the mission yet, Michael," Hawke pointed out succinctly.

"What?" The look on the government man's face was one of astonishment now.

"I don't like that Zeus just thinks he can take it for granted that we will jump when he says so. Airwolf is not his personal plaything."

"Or yours for that matter!" Archangel retaliated sharply.

"Ah, c'mon, String …." This from Dominic Santini now, who was just as surprised by Hawke's reluctance to agree to this mission as Archangel, and was secretly shocked by his young friend's rigid stance.

Yes, Hawke had a valid point, but standing his ground and digging his heels in over something like this seemed a little unreasonable, even to Santini.

There had been other missions in the past where it might have been more appropriate to make his point, but what Archangel was now proposing amounted to a rescue mission.

The older man didn't know what had gotten into his young friend today, but, he found he didn't like it. Not one little bit.

Hawke could be as cold, callous, hard nosed and unfeeling as the next man, when faced with having to end a life, if it was necessary, but he was usually much more compassionate and sensitive when innocent lives were at stake unnecessarily.

"Just what exactly goes on up there at Whiteout Station, Michael?" Hawke demanded, his face twisting into a nasty sneer as he glowered at the government man in white.

"I'm not all that familiar with the project, Hawke," Archangel confessed on a deep sigh, glaring back at the young man with equal venom. "It is a civilian concern, but it is my understanding that a couple of the projects involve examining rock and ice core samples to determine the possibility of there being oil, gas, coal, gold and other precious metal or mineral reserves under the ice cap," he explained in a tight voice.

"That's all? Nothing …. Shady?" Hawke pressed.

"Absolutely not!"

"Then why would the Russians be interested?"

"The same reason we are. If there is oil, or gas, or gold or coal or whatever up there, they'd be just as interested in getting at it as we would be. Whiteout was a multi national concern for a reason, Hawke, so that no one country could claim sole rights to whatever natural resources they found."

"How many people are we talking about, Michael?"

"Twenty, twenty five, I think, but Dr Roland would be able to tell you more about that than I."

"What do _**you **_think happened? Really?" Hawke pressed now, needing to ascertain if there was more going on here than Archangel was telling him. If it really was just a case of Zeus pulling rank and throwing his considerable weight around in offering the use of Airwolf to impress his influential friends, or if there was something not quite above board going on up at Whiteout Station, and The Firm had already had their suspicions about it.

"It would be speculation at best …."

"Level with me, Michael. _**Indulge**_ me a little …." Hawke sneered again.

"I have levelled with you. I have told you everything that I know. I don't have any idea what has occurred up there, Hawke, and that is the truth," Archangel insisted, his one good grey eye glittering with indignation and rage.

"However, after listening to Dr Roland, I am concerned that something has transpired, and I agree that someone needs to get up there fast, and take a look. If it turns out to be just a broken radio mast, or the weather playing havoc with the radio equipment, so be it."

Archangel let out a deep sigh and tried to put a reign on his temper, knowing that the younger man was enjoying winding him up, playing devils advocate.

"At least the scientists will be reassured that after six days without contact _**someone**_ gave enough of a damn about them to go check up on them. If you won't do it, I'll just have to find some other way …."

Now there was an unmistakeable threat in Archangel's one good eye.

A threat, that if he chose not to co-operate on this occasion, next time he and Santini needed The Firm's backing, or assistance, when Hawke came knocking, he would find no-one at home.

Hawke let out a deep, shoulder raising sigh.

He had obviously tested Archangel to the limit, and realised that it was enough for one day.

If he pushed any harder, Hawke mused, he might live to regret it.

Dominic was right.

They needed Archangel's benevolence and his protection, and if it meant having to give a little ground now and again ….

Well, Stringfellow Hawke was man enough to do so.

And if _**she **_wasn't involved, would he really be pushing quite so hard to make his point?

_**Time to quit stalling and get down to business!**_

"Alright Michael, don't get your panties in a bunch …." Hawke drawled now, drawing a scathing look from Archangel, and a snigger from Santini. "Just get us the replacement ammunition and armaments we need, and the necessary cold weather gear and I'll let you know when we're ready to go, and where to send Dr Roland to meet us," Hawke sighed deeply now, inching forward in his seat to perch on the very edge.

"Let's just get a few things straight. Firstly, I don't like this, Michael. I don't like the notion that Zeus is under the impression that when he clicks his fingers, I will come running. I don't work for Zeus. I work _**with**_ you, not _**for **_you. Understand?"

"Secondly, for future reference, I don't think this is a viable way of using Airwolf. Just because she is capable of flying through almost any kind of climatic conditions, it doesn't mean that we should take unnecessary risks with her. She is, after all, unique and irreplaceable. However, just this one time, I can see the need for speed and secrecy, but only because of the isolated location."

"And finally, we take Dr Roland and whatever she can carry, nothing else. No equipment or supplies except those which she can carry and which will fit into Airwolf's cargo hold, and we go straight there, and straight back, weather permitting. Are we clear on this now, Michael?"

Archangel continued to glare at Hawke, but the man in white knew that he had no choice but to agree to Hawke's terms, if they were going to continue with their association.

With that, Hawke rose from his perch and marched out of the office without so much as a backward glance, Santini rising slowly from his seat too and offering Archangel a half shrug and an apologetic look, as he followed the younger man out of the office, and it was only after they had gone, and Archangel had had a few minutes to reign in his temper, that the government man realised that Stringfellow Hawke, the usually concerned, gallant gentleman, had not once offered to find out if the lady who had fainted at the very sight of him was all right.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Chapter Two._**

**_Stringfellow Hawke's Cabin, Eagle Lake, California_**

**_Day Ten – Monday, February 20th 1984._**

**_Early Evening._**

After their departure from Knightsbridge, instead of pitching in with the maintenance work that was outstanding back at the Santini Air hangar, Stringfellow Hawke had excused himself and asked if he could borrow the Bell Jet Ranger to fly himself home to the cabin up on Eagle Lake, knowing that Dominic would have offered to fly him up there himself at the end of the work day, but he wanted, no _**needed**_, some time alone.

Dominic Santini had regarded him with sad and hurt rheumy grey eyes, making Hawke aware that he was still confused over the way his young friend had reacted out there at Knightsbridge, and the way he had treated his old friend, but that he was also concerned about him.

However, for once, Santini had seemed to sense that no words would help Hawke right now, and that pushing him would only make his mood more sullen and frigid, so the older man had kept silent, trying to hide his disappointment that Hawke would not confide in him, but also unable to completely hide the fact that he was quietly thrilled at the prospect of another Airwolf mission so soon.

Hawke was aware of just how odd his behaviour must have appeared to both Santini and Archangel, and even though he was a little ashamed by it, even he could not have adequately explained its cause to either of them, had he been so inclined.

However, he felt he had done enough to salvage his reputation in Archangel's eyes, and now he was banking on a night alone up at the cabin, surrounded by the beauty and tranquillity of nature, and all the things he loved and treasured, to restore equilibrium and the status quo.

Tet, his faithful old blue tick hound, was waiting for him on the jetty as he brought the Bell Jet Ranger into land, and pushed his muzzle welcomingly into Hawke's groin in greeting as he climbed out of the helicopter and strode up the wooden boards toward the shore, and home, lightly cuffing the dog's ears as he fell into step beside him.

Inside, the first thing Hawke did was to go to the bar and pour him self out a liberal splash of brandy into an intricately patterned crystal balloon glass and raising it to his face, sniffed at it.

However he did not take a sip, chastising himself harshly, for this was fast becoming a habit he could ill afford to cultivate.

Reaching out for a stiff drink to soothe his nerves ….

That road, Hawke knew, led to a very bad place, and one that he needed to avoid at all cost, if he was going to stay alive, and find out once and for all what happened to his brother.

The alcohol didn't really help anyway, only made him more sullen and maudlin.

He pushed the glass away from himself in disgust and strode across the large, open living area to the kitchen, where he prepared a pot of strong coffee and leaned against the counter as he waited for it to brew.

As he stood there, he tried to formulate a plan of action for the upcoming mission, but instead, the memories he did not want to indulge began to infringe, forcing their way to the fore, compelling him to confront them.

Anger erupted and reaching out for the nearest object, a favourite fat brown coffee mug, he hurled it across the room and watched with sick satisfaction as it exploded into tiny earthenware pieces in the huge open stone fireplace, sending Tet scurrying from where he had just settled, in his usual resting place across the hearth, with a yelp of surprise.

_**Feel better?**_

_**Hell no!**_

_**Damn!**_

_**Temper, temper!**_

_**If you really want to get physical, go chop some wood or something!**_

Leaving the coffee to perk, Hawke forced his legs to carry him back out onto the porch where he checked the woodpile, but he knew that he had more than enough lumber already cut, after he and Dom had worked off their frustrations and done a little bonding, over the two man saw a few days ago, so there was no relief from his anger and frustration to be found there.

Instead, he returned indoors and glancing over to the nook where his precious Stradivarius cello rested, toyed briefly with the idea of taking it down to the jetty to perhaps serenade the eagle, as she roamed the skies on her evening hunting trip, but then changed his mind, knowing that his mood was too black to even concentrate, much less find any peace or solace in the music, and the Strad far to precious and valuable to end up in pieces like the coffee mug, so Hawke crossed to the other side of the room, picked up his fishing rod and then headed back out through the front door.

_**Time to go catch dinner ….**_

Half way to the lake, he changed his mind.

Sitting silent and still on the shore or the row boat was the last thing he needed right now, far too much time to sit and think and brood and remember ….

What he needed was some physical exertion to take his mind off things he didn't want to recall.

_**A brisk walk? **_

_**A hike up the mountain ….**_

_**No, be dark soon ….**_

_**A run?**_

_**A swim maybe?**_

_**Oh yeah if you wanna catch triple pneumonia! It's February for crying out loud man!**_

However, he knew that it would be no use.

From past experience, Hawke knew that there was only one way to resolve the way he felt right now.

And that what he really _**felt **_was the need to get away from _**him self**_, but that was physically impossible.

The only thing that would afford him any relief at all was to simply give in to the memories

_**Damn.**_

_**Damn.**_

_**Damn!**_

Wasn't that why he had slunk off up here to be alone in the first place, he told himself bitterly.

_**Grow up!**_

_**Oh hell ….**_

Hawke turned on his heel and stalked back to the cabin, throwing his fishing rod angrily into the corner of the room and stormed to the kitchen to take the coffee pot off the stove, then returned to the bar and glared at the untouched brandy still sitting there, taunting him.

_**It won't help.**_

He told himself sternly and resisted the urge to lob the beautiful crystal glass across the room in the same manner as the coffee mug, the only thing stopping him was that it was part of a set of English lead crystal that his mother had treasured, a wedding present from her elderly grandparents, and woe betide him if he broke it!

Burying his head in his hands, Hawke gave a huge, shoulder raising sigh, then running his fingers roughly through his hair, his hand over his face, he stumbled over to the couch and sank down wearily.

There was nothing else for it.

_**So you're just gonna sit here and wallow?**_

_**Why not, seems like I don't have any other choice!**_

It wasn't going to go away, and he needed to deal with it, before he had to come face to face with Leigh Roland once more.

Leigh Roland ….

_**So that was her name ….**_

He had forgotten, remembering her only as Leigh.

Leigh of the golden mane and flaming eyes ….

Willow slender, fragile and ethereal, so young, so innocent and so beautiful and bringing to him such passion and comfort and peace, the like of which he had never known, before or since.

Summer, 1971.

Leaning back against the couch, allowing his head to drop back against the backrest, Stringfellow Hawke closed his eyes and with a deep, shoulder raising sigh, gave into the memories that had been fighting to get to the fore front of his mind all afternoon, since leaving Knightsbridge ….

Vietnam.

His second tour.

Headquarters of the 382nd AHC, and more precisely, the office of his Unit's joint commanding officers, Colonel Martin James Vidor, who had been out flying a mission with the rest of the squad, and who was the top brass that Hawke was most used to dealing with, but that day, he had found himself confronted with the other senior officer, Colonel Robert Jacob Falcon.

Hawke could see it all so clearly, as if it had happened only yesterday, see the clutter of files on the Colonel's desk, mission reports and requests for supplies, parts and ammunition. The notices and aerial maps pinned to cork boards around the room, fluttering in the breeze from the desk fan moving the still, thick, muggy afternoon air. Trays full of papers waiting to be read, or filed. The beaten up old wooden photo frame sitting on his desk beside the field telephone, the color image on display that of his lovely young wife, Louise, decked out in hippy garb, long raven hair loose and flowing in the breeze and a big white flower tucked neatly behind her ear, grinning like a lunatic at the camera as she hugged a particularly dopey looking puppy dog to her bosom ….

Falcon himself, tall, broad shouldered, built like a pro wrestler, but possessing a ribald sense of humour and the wisdom and patience afforded him by ten more years worth of living than Hawke himself, sitting on the other side of the desk, patiently staring him down ….

The noise, incoming Huey's droning, their rotors thwacking the air, men shouting, trucks rumbling, the general hustle and bustle of humanity continuing with another day on the front line.

Hawke could even recall the Colonel's voice, a rich, deep bass, and of course, that distinctive Queens accent ….

/a

**_Summer, Mid August, 1971 – Vietnam._**

"Don't look at me like that, Captain. It's supposed to be a reward, not a punishment," Colonel RJ Falcon regarded the young helicopter pilot who had earned himself the nickname, 'Slick' amongst his colleagues, for his natural ability to slide out of any kind of trouble, and tried to hide his amusement at the expression on the young man's face, watching as he undoubtedly tried to work out how he was going to slide out of _**this **_particular situation.

The kid was wasting his time, but Falcon appreciated the gesture.

Anything to brighten up his day.

He regarded the young fellow now with steady, understanding hazel eyes and wrestled with a smile.

Anyone would think that he had just handed Captain Stringfellow Hawke a death sentence, not a 30 day 'extraordinary leave' away from this godforsaken place.

"But, Sir …." The young man stammered in protest.

"Son, suck it up, and save your breath. You're outta here," Falcon lost the battle, a broad grin spreading across his lips, lighting up his still handsome face.

He had at least ten years on the kid, and would give his eye teeth to have been handed down a well deserved leave from his present command, but, no such luck for him.

"Hawke, it beats me why I'm not eatin' your dust about now," Falcon chuckled at the sour, disappointed expression on the young Captain's face.

"Any other young fella would have given himself whiplash in his rush to get out of here! My advice to you, kid, is go home, get drunk, or high …. Get laid …. And yes, kid that _**is **_an order!" Falcon chuckled at the look of embarrassed outrage and astonishment on the younger man's face.

"The doc'll still be here, with the penicillin shots, and whatever else you might need to get straightened out, when you get back. And you _**will**_ be back. We both know it, although we also both know that you don't have anything left to prove to anyone. You're a real tough little hombre, Hawke, but, you're still human. You got people back home, don't you?"

"Sir …."

"That old guy, Santiago?"

Falcon screwed his face up in a frown now, recalling the one and only time he had come face to face with Hawke's guardian, the imposing Italian war horse, when the young pilot had gained his promotion to Captain and the old man had gotten himself a job flying freight, delivering spare parts to the embarkation station in Honolulu, Hawaii, just so that he could come to see his young friend off at the beginning of this tour.

Falcon had just been promoted and assigned to the unit himself, and Stringfellow Hawke had been one of the first of his officers that he had met, on the runway, waiting in line for their transport back out here.

Hawke had been shipped to Hawaii for medical leave after catching a round in the thigh and then succumbing to a particularly nasty infection and a bout of mind distorting Malaria which had refused to respond to treatment in the field hospital, and so he had been transferred to Honolulu, for specialist treatment with strong intravenous antibiotics and anti malaria drugs.

To Falcon's surprise, whilst being acutely aware that the other men standing in line were desperately trying not to pee in their pants at the thought of returning, in complete contrast, Stringfellow Hawke had been all fired up and chomping at the bit to get back into action.

"Santini, Sir. Dominic Santini," Hawke corrected stiffly now.

"Him too," Falcon grinned. "Well, he's probably forgotten what the hell you look like kid," And they both knew that that wasn't far from the truth, for the young fellow who stood to rigid attention before him now was no longer a spotty adolescent, but a fine, upstanding young man who had recently turned twenty one.

"Look Captain, you've just finished fifteen months solid in this rats nest, longer than any other officer in this command, with the exception of Colonel Vidor and myself, and now you need some down time. War'll still be here in 30 days, kid. You won't miss anything …."

"Sir …."

"Hawke …. I know you don't want to hear this, that you're on your own righteous crusade out here, looking for your brother …. But, someone ought to say this to you before it's too late," Falcon paused and was suddenly aware of the dark, unforgiving scowl being aimed in his direction by the younger man.

On any other day, that look would have earned the younger man a severe reprimand from his Commanding Officer, but today, Falcon was feeling benevolent.

"You've been here longer than anyone I know, and I guess you know a whole helluva lot about dying, but what do you know about living? You come back here and next time we both know that the odds will be shorter …. Your luck could run out, just like that, and what the hell have you done with your young life, exactly? Go home kid, hang loose and learn to live a little, before it's your time to die."

"Sir …."

"Son, it's not a crime to relax and enjoy yourself. You're young and there is a world full of stuff out there that you have just as much right to experience, and enjoy as anyone else. Let your hair down a little, soldier, you are allowed, and you earned it. Dismissed!" Falcon concluded, not allowing the young man a chance to offer any further protest, but when Hawke remained at rigid attention, muscles along his jaw line working industriously as he tried to think of something, anything that would get him a reprieve, Falcon found himself liking the young man even more.

When so many others would have grabbed the opportunity without question and bolted, here was a young man who was looking for excuses to stay and fight.

And if he wasn't practically burned out, and pushing his luck every time he took a bird up, Falcon might just have turned a blind eye and agreed to his staying.

However, the young man was worn out, emotionally and mentally, and he needed to get away from this place and get some perspective back.

"Sir, can't I take my leave here, in country? It's just that I would prefer to be close, in case there is news of my brother, Sir …."

"Not a good idea, son. You need to get some distance between yourself and this hellhole. I figured maybe you'd want to try for Hawaii, so your friend Santini could maybe get out there to catch up with you, but …. How about a compromise? There's Bangkok or Hong Kong …. Oh hell, frankly kid, I don't care _**where **_you go, _**just go**_! Climb aboard the first plane off the airfield, heading away from here. Now, haul ass, Captain, 30 days, no more, no less! Just don't come back pregnant! Don't think the doc would have anything in his little black bag of tricks to remedy that!"

"Sir, yes Sir …."

And so, after collecting his papers and a few belongings from his bunk, and enduring the necessary but embarrassing and humiliating medical examination to declare that he was not carrying any communicable or anti social diseases, Captain Stringfellow Hawke had found himself on the next transport plane, hitching a ride alongside the other GI's, rewarded like himself, off on well deserved leave, his destination, Sydney, Australia.

He had hated every second of the journey, feeling like he had somehow been betrayed.

Feeling bad because he couldn't help feeling like he had let everyone that he loved down.

Hawke knew that he should have tried to get home, back to the States, that Dom would be hurt and angry and confused as to why he hadn't come home the first chance he had got, but he couldn't go back home, no matter how much he missed Dominic Santini.

He had made a solemn vow that he would not go home again until he had found St John, and then the two of them could go home, together ….

He wasn't like the others on that flight, recovering from illness or injury, physically exhausted or close to mental breakdown, shell shocked and numb, or getting over some horrible jungle fever, although he remembered what that had been like from last time.

He was fine.

He was good.

He could still make a difference, and Lord knew they needed all the experienced pilots they could get right now, and he knew that he was one of the best.

But, instead, here he was ….

_**Rewarded,**_ for all the hard work and unquestioning loyalty, by being sent away.

30 days.

_**What the hell would he do with himself for 30 lousy days?**_

Why the hell didn't they just throw him in the stockade, instead, because no matter what Colonel Falcon had said, it _**did**_ feel more like a punishment than a reward to young Stringfellow Hawke.

After disembarking the plane and enduring a bus ride out to the reception center, reporting in, listening to the two hour lecture on dress code and what he could and could not do here in good old Oz, and then finally gaining his freedom to find some place to spend the night, Hawke had hit the streets and found a reasonably priced and homely looking hotel, paid for one night and called his liaison at the reception center to declare his address.

Then with nothing else to do, he had decided to go out and about, hoping that doing something as normal as a little sight seeing, and maybe getting a nice cold beer would help him to feel less uncomfortable and guilty, Colonel RJ Falcon's words about shorter odds and what the hell did he really know about living, still ringing in his ears, goading him into it too.

Maybe they were right, he had silently conceded

_**I'll show you what I know about living!**_ He had thought defiantly.

Late afternoon found Stringfellow Hawke following a bunch of GI's down a busy street until he found himself in a district called Kings Cross, a place he had heard spoken about with awe from some of his colleagues who had been here before, renowned as the place for a GI to unwind in any one of the many bars and strip joints and to find himself some willing female company, for a price of course.

He followed the GI's into the nearest gaudily neon illuminated establishment and eventually found his way to the bar, where he ordered a beer and then sipped at it slowly.

The bar was crowded and noisy, and Hawke felt out of his depth, unused to drinking this early in the day and feeling uncomfortable, like a bump on a log, out of place and ill at ease in a sea of strangers, as scantily clad, nubile young woman danced, flaunting their slender bodies provocatively, as they abandoned their clothes with ease and without any sign of embarrassment.

As one dance routine came to an end and the bar erupted with jeers and shouts and whoops of excitement, suddenly, feeling ashamed of himself and sick to his stomach, needing to get some fresh air, Hawke abandoned his beer, turning away from the bar and hurried toward the exit, almost knocking over a young woman carrying a tray of drinks, in his haste, feeling the heat of embarrassment burning in his cheeks and his stomach rolling.

_**He didn't belong here.**_

_**This was all wrong ….**_

_**It had been a mistake to come.**_

He didn't know these people, and they would never understand what he had been through, what horrors he had seen, only last week ….

Moreover, Dom would skin him alive if he knew he had found himself in a place like this!

"Hey, watch where you're going, mate!" The girl exclaimed, glaring angrily at him, but then her expression softened as she recognised the sickly expression on the young man's handsome face, and moved quickly out of his way, allowing him to pass as she set down the tray of beer and hurried out of the bar behind him.

"You alright, mate?" She asked in a soft voice, finding the young GI leaning against the wall in an adjacent alley, head bowed, dragging in huge, deep breaths and trying hard not to throw up.

Anger had fuelled Hawke's footsteps, mostly directed at himself, because he was still so naïve and innocent, so easily embarrassed and ashamed, and, he was forced to acknowledge, maybe he had forgotten how to be young and carefree, and how to enjoy himself after all, if he had every really known how to 'hang loose', as he heard the other guys call it, but he hadn't made it very far before he felt breathless and dizzy, nausea biting in the back of his throat.

Fighting against the bitter bile and the desire to swing his fist into the brickwork, Hawke found himself leaning heavily against the wall, the stench of rotting food rising from a rusty metal dumpster a few feet away, only adding to his discomfort as he dragged in deep breaths.

At the sound of her voice, Hawke raised his head, piercing blue eyes blazing with anger and humiliation, scathing words on the tip of his tongue, only to suddenly find, there before him, the most incredibly beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life, regarding him with sympathy as she stood at the top end of the alley.

She was very slender and long of limb, long blonde hair, like fine golden thread shimmering and glistening in the soft yellow sunlight streaming in from the street behind her, hanging like a sheet of gold leaf all the way down her back to her buttocks, odd strands being lifted by the gentle late afternoon breeze, her elfin features arranged in a soft expression of understanding.

"You sick?"

"No. I'm alright …." Hawke stammered.

"Yank?"

"Yeah."

"What you need is a little something to put a lining on your stomach, mate, before you try bolting down the gut rot they serve here," she grinned now and Hawke found her unusual Australian accent and turn of phrase most charming and her smile most beguiling, as he straightened himself up and drew in a deep breath, pushing away from the wall and walking with as much dignity as he could muster back up the alley toward her.

"It's bloody rough stuff, until you get used to it. First time in Oz?" The girl asked as he joined her at the top of the alley, and he nodded. "On your own?" He nodded again. "So where are you from then?"

"California."

"Strapping young bloke like yourself, you're probably a surfer, right?" She slipped her arm into the crook of his elbow and guided him back into the bustling noisy bar, raising her voice slightly to make her self heard, and Stringfellow Hawke allowed himself to be guided, unable to take his eyes off her face.

"I've been known to ride a tube or two, now and again …." He found himself grinning, relaxing a little as he gazed into eyes that were the most unusual shade he had ever seen.

Amber irises with big black pupils, reminding him of a much loved Teddy bear he had had as a child ….

"So you'll probably be wanting to take a look at Bondi?"

"Bondi?"

"Bondi Beach. Real good surfing there. Not far from here. Go there myself most weekends. Hey, Minnie …." She was directing her attention to a much older woman who was serving drinks behind the bar now. "Gimme a couple of Coke's …."

Hawke automatically reached into his pocket to extract some of the local currency to pay for his drink, but she shook her head gently and passed him a bottle of ice cold Coke, little rivers of condensation trickling down the shoulders of the bottle.

"You surf?" Hawke found himself asking, taking a sip of his own Coke, regarding her with curiosity now, desperately trying not to stare into those unique eyes, as he tried to determine how old she was and realising that she was probably the same age that he was, but certainly no older.

And she was absolutely the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"Sure. Bottom's up," she grinned, raising her own bottle to her lips and taking a swift gulp. "Look, mate, I hope you don't mind me saying anything, but this isn't exactly the kind of place for a nice young bloke like your self to be, on his own. Catch my drift?"

"And it is for a nice girl like you?" Hawke countered.

"I only work here, mate, not live here. I'm at Uni …. A student at the University of New South Wales, but unfortunately, I still have to work the odd shift in this dive to pay the bills," she explained. "I'm finished here in about an hour, so why don't you let me show you to a better part of town, unless of course that would be cramping your style?"

"No, I …." Hawke grew cautious, wondering fleetingly if he wasn't being set up for something sinister. Just because she looked so sweet and innocent, it didn't necessarily follow that she actually was.

"C'mon luv, you'll be safe with me," she assured, reading his thoughts and coming to the conclusion that he thought that he was about to get hustled, and that he did not wholly trust her, or her motives for befriending him.

"Safer than walking the streets of Kings Cross on your own at night any way, unless of course you're looking to get ripped off, or your idea of a fun night out is to be rolled at knife point for your wad, and dumped unconscious in some back alley?"

"I can take care of myself," Hawke bristled.

"I'm sure you can, Cobber, but you wouldn't have to if you were with me," she pointed out in reasonable tones, still smiling at him, and Hawke began to wonder if it was she who was afraid to walk these streets alone at night.

He certainly wouldn't blame her, and guessed that she hadn't been exaggerating, for even in daylight he had been able to spot what kind of a rough neighborhood it was, and after dark, he could well imagine the kind of things that went on, and knowing that, Stringfellow Hawke also knew that he was too much of a gentleman to let her go home unescorted.

"It's up to you. Just trying to do you a favour …." She shrugged non chalontly now. "I just thought …."

"Well …. Ok. I guess I don't have any set plans. So, why not? Maybe you could show me this Bondi place …."

"Right then," she gave him a cheeky wink with her right eye, still grinning, then moved back behind the bar. "Better do some work before the boss decides to fire me for getting fresh with his customers!"

She laughed softly, moving away to serve a couple of rough looking fellows further down the bar, leaving Hawke to watch her, surreptitiously, as he sipped on the ice cold Coke.

A little over an hour later, with the sun sinking slowly toward the horizon now, Stringfellow Hawke found himself sitting in the passenger seat of a beaten up, sickly lime green colored Volkswagen Beetle, as the girl with the golden hair and amber eyes drove him through the suburbs of Sydney, heading east out of the city toward the coast, and Bondi Beach.

A short time later, she found a place to park the little car and then they were getting out and walking toward the beach, the stiff evening breeze pulling at their hair and clothes.

She stopped, briefly, to pull off her shoes and roll up the legs of her jeans to just above her knees, and then she was walking off ahead of him, making for an outcrop of dark coloured rocks at the far end of the beach, where she climbed gracefully up and then sitting down, dangled her bare sun bronzed legs and feet into the swirling foam at the base of the rock.

"Pull up a chair," she invited, patting the space on the rock beside her, never taking her eyes off the horizon.

Hesitating, just for a moment, Hawke forced his legs to carry him the short distance to the rocks, and then carefully scrambled up to sit beside her, careful not to touch her, as he drew up his knees, hugging them tightly into his chest and focused his attention on the horizon.

"I guess California would be out there, somewhere …."

A beautiful smile spread across her lips as she waved her hand vaguely out toward the horizon and Stringfellow Hawke found his eyes drawn to the line between slowly darkening sky and deep blue ocean.

California.

Home.

"Yeah," he let out a deep sigh. "About seven and a half thousand miles, thataway," he found himself grinning.

"Guess you'd probably run into Japan first, before you got there …."

"Probably."

"Or Hawaii. Good surf there too, Hawaii. Wouldn't mind riding a tube or two there one day."

"Yeah. Me too."

They fell into silence then, and as he sat there watching the sky darken and the ocean slowly rising and falling, Stringfellow Hawke felt a strange kind of peace settle over him.

Just before the sun finally disappeared, leaving them in total darkness, the girl hopped down off the rock carefully, splashing in the ankle deep water swirling around the base of the rock, and held out her hand to him, and with the fiery light of the dying sun flooding over his shoulders, Stringfellow Hawke again found himself wondering if he was hallucinating as he looked down into eyes that were almost exactly the same color as the orb which was descending behind him, dancing like warm, golden firelight, as she held out her hand to him and smiled softly.

Acting purely on an impulse, Stringfellow Hawke reached down and accepted her hand, feeling its delicate warmth wrap around his own, and from that moment, it was as though he were caught up in a wonderful dream, where real life, the war in Vietnam, even his beloved St John and Dominic Santini no longer existed.

His world, his life, all that he was and everything that he saw and felt from that instant, became this beautiful golden creature.

They walked, hand in hand, darkness falling rapidly around them, accompanied only by the sound of the ocean breaking on the shore, on and on, in companionable silence, stopping now and again to paddle in the incoming surf or to gaze up at the myriad twinkling diamond bright stars in the sky over head, until, at last, she stopped, reaching out to pull him into her arms, her head tilted back slightly so that she could look up into his deep, uncertain blue eyes, and then she was gently pulling his face down to her own, her lips so warm and sweet and soft and inviting, and to his amazement, Stringfellow Hawke had given himself up to the moment, to the impulse to return her kiss, to wrap himself up in the wonder and beauty and peace of the moment, and the passion that had flared between them in that instant had been as incandescent as the flame of desire he could see burning in her unusual eyes, and he was lost.

Eventually Hawke found himself being guided back to her little car, and she drove them away from the beach, taking a small dirt track that led to a very secluded little bay, and a very pretty little beach cottage.

"Our weekend retreat," she explained retrieving a key to the front door from beneath a large pot plant on the door step. "My parents used to bring me here all the time when I was a little kid, but we don't use it so much any more. Not since I graduated High School and went to Uni …." She explained, slipping the key easily into the lock.

The golden girl opened the door, stepped inside and drew him inside behind her, closing the door on the world beyond.

Leaving off the lights, the girl reached out and clasping his hand gently in her own, guided Hawke down the hallway, opening doors along the way to reveal the rooms which branched off from it.

Firstly a small bathroom, then a large living space, illuminated by ghostly silver moonlight flooding in through two large French windows.

The living room overlooked the ocean, and was furnished with a drop leaf kitchen table and four chairs in one corner, a couple of beaten up, overstuffed armchairs and a matching sofa pushed up against the far wall and a low coffee table covered with magazines. There was an old television set and an even older record player and shelves lined with books and nick knacks, but the rooms main feature were those two large French windows that opened out onto a patio area and a path that led straight to the beach.

At the far end of the hall, there was a long, narrow kitchen, separated from the hallway by one of those multi colored beaded curtain affairs, but before that there were two more doors, one on each side of the hallway.

Abruptly the girl came to a stop outside the door on the right, reaching out to turn the handle and push it open, then paused briefly in the open doorway, allowing him to see into the room beyond, to a narrow single bed, also pushed up against the wall, with a nightstand graced by a psychedelic lamp beside it, and walls covered with sun faded posters of Elvis Presley and The Beatles and The Monkees.

As Hawke glanced from the interior of the room to the girl and back again, he could not fail to recognise the look in her eyes.

Real life had ceased to exist beyond that door, and as Hawke allowed her to guide him deeper into the room, her arms coming up around his neck to draw him close in the sweetest of embraces he had ever known, Hawke realised that he still did not even know her name.

They had not made love that first night, instead, she had drawn him down on to the narrow bed beside her, her arms folding around him to draw him close, her fingers playing with his hair as she gazed hypnotically into his eyes, a soft smile on her lips, almost as though she knew, understood, that it was not physical intimacy that he needed so much as the comfort of just being close to another human being, just to be held, and caressed with tenderness, and she had done just that, her fingers lightly stroking his face, chest, belly, until he had fallen into a deep, dreamless and peaceful sleep, cradled in her arms.

Just shy of four weeks later, and barely twenty four hours before he had been due to return to his unit, Stringfellow Hawke had finally surfaced, a new man, more alive and confident and mature than he had ever been, and had regretfully returned to his hotel room for the last time, to collect his gear, having made sure that as per regulations he had checked in with the manager there at least once every day to make sure that he hadn't been required to report back to his unit early, his mind, his heart and his senses still focused on Leigh, the promise in her eyes and her parting embrace.

He had returned to Vietnam, his unit and his duties, and had gotten on with fighting the war, and trying to find out what had happened to his beloved brother, St John, just as he had before, but from that day to this, Hawke had never spoken of those four weeks when he had 'gone bush', with Dominic Santini, or anyone else for that matter, and therefore, nor of his profound disappointment that nothing had ever come of his albeit brief relationship with the flame eyed, flaxen haired beauty.

Leigh Roland.

Hawke let out a deep sigh and ran his hand roughly over his face, feeling the heat of shame and embarrassment there now.

He still couldn't believe how reckless and uninhibited he had been ….

But, he supposed, it had been the time, the place ….

The girl.

He had thought himself so grown up, because he was fighting in one of the most bloody and brutal wars of all time, and had somehow managed to survive, up to then, but he had become a man in so many ways in those idyllic four weeks, learning so much about himself and life, in Leigh's arms.

And, now, in hindsight, he supposed that he had accepted her advances, had willingly thrown himself into the relationship, because deep down inside he had known that Colonel Falcon might just be right, that he might get killed the first time he went back into battle, without really knowing what it meant to live.

They had lived together, as close as a man and a woman could be, for him the first, and only time he had experienced such intimacy, and domesticity with a woman, his intimate relationships since confined to the occasional overnight liaison, but he had never again shared the intimate minutiae of his daily life with a woman.

They had made no firm commitment to each other.

There had been no declarations of undying love, but there had been a silent agreement between them that something was happening, something beautiful and amazing and beyond anything that they might have any right to expect.

They were both aware that he had to go back to 'Nam, and she had her own plans, to go back to college to complete her medical training at the University of New South Wales in Sydney, and that was pretty much all that he knew about her.

Her name was Leigh Roland, she was twenty years old, an only child and she had her heart set on becoming a doctor.

He hadn't talked much either, he conceded silently now, telling her little about himself except his name, Hawke, and that he had his own plans to complete his education when he finished with the war in Vietnam, hoping to go on to do the applied physics degree he had planned before he had followed St John into the Army, and then on to 'Nam, and that his ambition beyond that was to get his commercial pilot's licence.

Actually, now that he stopped and thought about it, they hadn't talked much at all, but they had communicated, on so many levels.

The only real commitment they had both made was that they would write, and that when he was done with the war and before he went home for good, they would see each other again, and explore how they felt about each other then.

No empty promises.

Only hope.

He had returned to the war, leaving her with his name, rank and serial number so that she could write to him, and a silent promise that they would see each other again, some day, and the knowledge that she had given him something else to live for.

Now, as he allowed himself to recall how she had felt in his arms, the scent and taste of her, the bone melting smile and the sexy little wiggle when she walked, the selfless love and pleasure she had offered to him and that infectious laugh that had lightened his heart and made him feel giddy and young and alive again for the first time in years, Stringfellow Hawke also allowed himself to remember what it had felt like to fall in love with her.

And he recalled the simple things that she had taught him that had later equipped him to face life alone as a bachelor. Things like making good coffee and improving his vegetarian diet with nuts and seeds and pasta. Explaining about nutrition and that he needed a healthy balanced diet if he was going to stay fit and strong and well. Teaching him how to prepare and cook simple, tasty but healthy meals, her recipe for Eggplant Parmesan being one that he used regularly, even to this day, and Stringfellow Hawke knew that Leigh had altered his life in so many subtle little ways, but all for the better.

A shy boy had walked beside her into that pretty beach cottage and a confident, self assured and hopeful man had walked out of it again four weeks later.

He closed his eyes tight, trying to blot out the memory of her fiery amber eyes, seeing again the passion and the joy of life burning in them each time he found himself gazing deeply into them when they made love, the sweetness of her lips, her generosity and patience and the tender, gentle way she had held him, and again, Stringfellow Hawke found himself wondering just what had happened after he had shipped out.

He had been so sure that they wouldn't just drift apart, that it was more than just a brief fling ….

He had written, as he had promised, but he had never gotten a letter back from her.

Eager anticipation had kept him alive in the first few weeks after he had returned to the fray, and then hope, hope that someday something would arrive, that he hadn't heard from her because of the lousy mail service, her letters somehow getting lost …. but eventually even the hope had faded.

There was no word from her, and by the time he had finally gotten a medical discharge from the Army, in the middle of 1972, bitterness had made its home deep in his heart, bitterness and resentment that he hadn't even deserved a 'dear John' letter from her, blowing him off, but, nevertheless, he had got the message, loud and clear.

Feeling like a prize fool, he had gone back to Sydney, granted a twenty four hour pass, before being returned to the States for good, and he had gone straight to the cottage, finding it easily, but of course, it was empty, looking almost exactly as they had left it that last day, almost a year ago, obviously disused and untended after all this time.

Hawke had then gone back to the bar in Kings Cross, but she had been long gone, no-one there even remembering her or where she might have gone, and then there had been no more time left for him to search for her, even if he had known where to start.

For the first time in his life, the twenty two year old Stringfellow Hawke had had to face rejection, abandoned by yet another woman he cared for, but not in the usual way he had come to expect.

She hadn't died ….

At least he didn't think she had …

No, she had simply moved on to the next lost, damaged soul.

And for a very long time, he had shut himself off emotionally, denying just how hurt and frustrated and angry and confused he was, because he had been so sure that she had felt the same way that he did.

Not exactly in love, but teetering on the brink, and that given time, they could have made something beautiful and strong and enduring of their lives together.

A future.

Something that Stringfellow Hawke had given up on, until she had come into his life.

And something that he had killed all hope of, when he got back from 'Nam, after his last tour.

He had broken himself of the new habit of looking forward, of planning ahead, of hoping, dreaming ….

And had gone back to simply living each day as it came.

Life had gone on, and he had endured it, somehow putting that illicit, idyllic month of madness out his mind, dismissing it as an aberration, a once in a life time mistake never to be repeated ….

And then he had seen her, today, and it all came flooding back, threatening to overwhelm him.

And now he couldn't stop himself from wondering where it had all gone wrong, how he could have been so wrong about the way that he had felt ….

They had felt for each other ….

And wishing that he could find it in his heart to hate her.

She was alive.

And, he realised that he was glad about that.

And he had to deal with her.

And the only way he knew how to do it was to close him self off completely emotionally, be cold, hard and unfeeling, shut out everyone and everything, even Dominic Santini, and focus on the mission, because he wasn't altogether sure that Archangel had told him everything about the real nature of this mercy mission, and he suspected that he would need to have his wits about him at all times, if he was going to get through it in one piece.

With any luck, Leigh would not want to rake up the past either.

Maybe she would be as uncomfortable and embarrassed as he was and would perhaps go out of her way to avoid a confrontation with him.

_**After all, what good would it do?**_

_**Why bring unnecessary conflict and hostility into an already tense situation, a situation where they might need to rely upon each other to stay alive?**_

Perhaps the best way to handle it was to simply ignore it, act like nothing had happened, like they were strangers.

She had a job to do too, he reminded himself, and perhaps that would be all that would interest her.

Perhaps she would have no more desire to conduct a post mortem over a past mistake than he did.

Yet even as he set his mind to concentrating solely on the mission ahead, Stringfellow Hawke could not stop himself from wondering how different his life might have been today, if things had worked out with the beautiful golden goddess from Australia.

/a

**_Airwolf's Lair,_**

**_The Valley of the Gods, somewhere in the desert ..._**

**_Day Eleven - Tuesday February 21st, 1984._**

**_Late evening._**

"Brrrr ….. Kinda chilly around here …."

Dominic Santini's sarcastic tone was not lost on Stringfellow Hawke, but the younger man ignored the jibe and focused his attention on securing the last bolt on the access panel where he had been installing the replacement SHRIKE missiles.

It had been a long day.

Long, but productive at least.

Having received word from Marella that all the replacement armaments that he had requested were ready and waiting for him at the usual pre-arranged co-ordinates, the call coming in on the satellite telephone Archangel had given him to keep at the cabin, late the previous evening, Hawke had then used the short wave radio and arranged to meet Santini, before dawn, and together they had gone out to the drop site, toted the heavy boxes and crates of ammo and missiles into the cargo hold of the heavy lift helicopter, an old CH-47 twin engine, tandem rotor Chinook they had been commissioned to overhaul and restore to her former glory by a private collector, and then had made their way out to the Lair, Santini's dry comment that Archangel had turned their requisition for supplies around so quickly it had probably made his nose bleed, eliciting no reaction from his young friend.

And so the day had progressed.

Dominic Santini was no stranger to hard work, and he did not mind knuckling down and doing his fair share, but he much preferred to do it with a little banter and the odd wise crack to punctuate the lengthy silences.

However, today, his young friend would not be drawn into any kind of conversation that wasn't about the technicalities involved in replacing the various armaments, or a positive or negative response to Santini's offer to fix him coffee from the bottomless thermos he had brought along.

They were almost done, and the sun had long since gone down over the desert and the imposing monolithic sandstone structures that formed The Valley Of The Gods, and Dominic Santini was just about done with Hawke's stony silence and grim expression.

"You ready to tell me where your head is at and what's going on with you?" Santini leaned down now, angling his face so that it was drawing level with Hawke's, the younger man lying flat on his back gazing up at Airwolf's pale pearlescent underbelly as he tightened the last screw on the access panel.

Hawke stopped what he was doing; briefly, to give Santini one of his warning frosty glares.

"Oh boy …." Santini gave a deep sigh, recognising the look, as he rolled his eyes heavenward and sought inspiration and a little patience from his Maker. "What's gotten into you, String?" He tried to keep his impatience and frustration out of his voice, but failed, miserably.

Again, no response, and again Santini sighed.

He was used to the younger man's mood swings, to the lengthy brooding silences and the dark depressions that settled around his friend from time to time, but Hawke hadn't been this tight-lipped and intensely shut off, this impenetrable, for some time.

Santini didn't like it.

Moreover, he was worried about his young friend.

When Hawke had shown up to pick him up this morning, it had been immediately obvious to Santini that the young man's mood was still dark and forbidding, and to top it all, he looked as if he hadn't managed a wink of sleep, dark circles under his eyes, smudges of charcoal and purple standing out livid against his healthy Californian tan, and there were new fine, feathery lines of fatigue around the corners of his piercing blue eyes.

The cold, hard, grim expression on his face had sent an ominous shiver down Santini's spine, and he had known what to expect from Hawke for the rest of the day.

His young friend had not let him down, remaining silent and cold, resisting all of Santini's efforts to draw him into conversation, not reacting at all, not so much as even a smile when he cracked a joke, or a snarl when he asked a dumb question, which would have been infinitely better than the angry silence that he had been forced to endure, and Santini was still no wiser as to what had brought about this abrupt, and unwelcome black dog of a mood that hung over his young friend.

He just knew he didn't like it.

And he'd had enough of it.

How were they supposed to work together when he couldn't get a word out of Hawke?

However, Santini's heart was heavy, knowing that if the young man ran to form, there wasn't a whole helluva lot he could do about it.

_**Well, enough was enough!**_

No amount of cajoling and teasing had drawn a response from Hawke, and so now Santini was forced to goad a reaction out of the younger man.

He did not relish the idea of spending an uncomfortable night in a sleeping bag here in the Lair, at any time, but a night of silence, feeling the waves of anger and tension rolling off of Hawke was more than Santini could bear.

He needed to get to the bottom of this before they set off for their pre-arranged rendezvous, another dawn appointment, when they would meet up with Dr Leigh Roland, stow her gear and then set off for all point's north, last stop, the Arctic Circle.

Santini had had enough of being frozen out for one day.

Now he wanted answers.

"Ya know, String, if I did something wrong, I wish you would just come on out and tell me," Santini sighed deeply, fixing hurt, rheumy grey eyes on his young companion, as Hawke rolled gracefully out from beneath Airwolf's underbelly, careful to avoid kicking the nose landing gear as he did so.

"You still mad 'cos I laid one on ya?" Santini demanded. "I thought we'd sorted that out, but if you're still chewin' on it …. Well, go ahead, lay one on me. Give it your best shot, and get it out of your system …" He invited, his tone edged with irritation now as he stuck out his chin invitingly. "I'm tired of tap dancing around your feelings, so c'mon, show me what ya got!"

"Settle down, Dom," Hawke rose agilely to his feet and then leaned carefully against the pristine black paintwork of Airwolf's hull, wiping his oil and grease stained fingers on a dirty work cloth.

"It has nothing to do you with you," he fixed the older man with another of his well practiced frosty glowers. "So drop it," he advised Santini on a low growl.

"I will not drop it!" Santini erupted. "I hate seeing you like this, String! Something is eating away at you, making you mean and down right nasty, and believe me, it ain't pretty to watch! I can't help you if you won't talk to me!"

"What makes you think I need help?" Hawke snarled now. "But, whatever it is that is going on inside _**my **_head, is _**my**_ business, for _**me **_to deal with. Now, please, for both our sakes, just drop it."

"I hope you work it out real quick, String. It's gonna be cold enough up there in the Arctic, without you freezing me out too …."

"Dom …."

Hawke gave a huge, shoulder raising sigh and closed his eyes, briefly.

"I told you this has nothing to do with you. With us. We're good," he assured and tried to inject a little sincerity into his voice, for it was the truth.

He wasn't mad with Santini.

Only with himself, and the rest of the world ….

"Oh really," Santini challenged.

"Yeah, really. It's just …. Let's just get this mission out of the way, ok?"

"Is that what this is all about? The damned mission? You still narked because Zeus assumed that we would be happy to play supersonic taxi service on his whim?"

"Something like that," Hawke lied, hoping to appease his old friend. "I'm still not convinced that Archangel told us everything about what really goes on up there at Whiteout Station, and if we do have to deal with the Russians, this could get real ugly, real quick …."

Hawke paused to wipe a persistent grease stain from his fingers.

"Dom, neither of us is used to working in those kinds of extreme climatic conditions, and although her design parameters take things like that into account, I'm not sure about just how Airwolf will perform in those kinds of temperatures and conditions. I know what the manual says, but no-one ever got to actually put it into practice …."

His voice trailed away then, but he could see from the look on Santini's face that the older man got the point.

"We'll be ok, kid. We'll have us a real bona fide Arctic weather expert tagging along with us. She's a medical doctor too," Santini grinned, recalling the golden haired beauty he had got a fleeting glimpse of in Archangel's office, and now found Stringfellow Hawke throwing him a grim, humourless smile in return.

"Right," the younger man growled. "I just wish this one was over and done with."

"You got one of your feelings about this one, huh?" Santini regarded Hawke with curiosity and concern now, used to the gut instincts that his young friend experienced now and again, odd feelings that warned him of impending danger, or that something was not quite right.

Santini had learned to trust in them too, for they were invariably right.

If Hawke was uneasy about this mission, then Dominic Santini knew that he should be sitting up and taking note.

Santini also knew that the young man was right to be worried about the extreme weather conditions they might have to deal with. Throw the Russians into the mix as well, and it was no wonder his young friend was acting out of sorts.

"What is your gut telling ya, String?"

"Just that we should be extra careful, and that things aren't always what they seem. Something is going on up there at Whiteout, that's for sure, but as to what …. I don't know. One thing is for sure, Dom, the only people I'm willing to trust right now, are you and me."

"You done for the night?" Santini asked, deciding to change the subject when he saw the sour expression on Hawke's face.

"I don't know about done, but I'm certainly done in …." Hawke forced a weak smile to his lips, hoping that he had done enough talking to take Dominic Santini's mind off the real reason for his foul mood.

"Maybe we should call it a day?" Hawke suggested now. "Fix something to eat and then get an early night? Got another early start in the morning," he reminded gently.

"Yeah, what about that? I bet that Dr Roland is really loving you about now! I mean, you couldn't have picked a lonelier, more remote spot out there in the desert, and at it ain't gonna be pleasant for her sitting there waiting for us in the cold and the dark."

"I'm sure she's been to colder, darker, lonelier places, Dom …." Hawke retorted, and with that, he pushed himself off of Airwolf's hull and walked away, leaving Dominic Santini frowning, silently mulling over all that the young man had just said, and trying to figure out where and when Hawke had hoodwinked him and managed to bamboozle him about what it was that was really bothering him.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Chapter Three_**

**_Rendezvous co-ordinates._**

**_A lonely stretch of highway, somewhere in the desert._**

**_Day Twelve – Wednesday, February 22nd, 1984._**

**_4am_**

Out of the darkness an eerie, distinctive animalistic whine split the pre-dawn silence, as Airwolf's powerful search lights suddenly illuminated a wide expanse of rough desert terrain and the white line down the center of the winding, undulating dusty highway, and Stringfellow Hawke eased her nose down and came in slow and easy over the pristine white stretch limo pulled in off the highway.

If Hawke was surprised to find Archangel's car at the pre-arranged rendezvous location he made no comment to Santini, silently setting Airwolf down gently and making sure that all the switches and circuits were closed.

Hawke knew that he should have realised that Archangel would see to it personally that Dr Leigh Roland made it out safely to the lonely spot on the desert highway that Hawke had selected as the rendezvous, and that he would stay to see her safely settled on board Airwolf.

In the rear engineering section of Airwolf, Dominic Santini watched various screens and instrument readings as the elegant Mach 1 super helicopter's systems went into standby mode, or went off line, her tail and main rotors slowly winding down.

When he was certain that his end of things was secure, Santini carefully pulled off his helmet and inched his way out of his seat.

"Well, whatchya waitin' for?" He turned slightly to grin at his young friend as he drew level with him, but Hawke was still wearing his helmet, and those piercing blue eyes of his were cold, hard, chips of ice as he turned his head slightly to regard Santini, and the older man could see that there was no relaxing of the younger man's stern, austere expression.

"Oh, I see. You chauffeur, me bellhop …." Santini exhaled heavily. "I'll just go get the lady's bags then shall I …." He grumbled, popping the door and climbing out carefully, then turned back to regard Hawke again with frustrated grey eyes as he stood in the open doorway. "I thought you might at least try to be sociable."

"I don't do sociable, especially not at four in the morning."

_**And certainly not after spending another long, uncomfortable and restless night listening to Santini snore and staring at the ceiling of the cave …. **_

And then when he had finally succumbed to his body's desperate need for sleep, vivid dreams had overwhelmed him.

His mind haunted by images of Vietnam, St John, Gabrielle ….

And, inevitably, Leigh ….

His sleep had afforded him no peace and certainly no real rest, and as a result his temper had little improved, his mood as black as the pre-dawn sky outside, although he had tried to keep a lid on it for Dominic's sake.

They had a job to do, no matter how distasteful or irritating it might be to him personally.

He had no choice but to face this day.

And the consequences of coming face to face with Leigh Roland again, after all these years.

However, Dominic Santini wasn't stupid and he had gauged the younger man's mood from the first moment he opened his eyes, but although he didn't understand what was so annoying and upsetting the younger man, wisely, he had made no comment, just concentrated on waking up, and getting himself moving, doing everything he could not to irritate his young friend in the process.

Hawke had appreciated the gesture, for he knew that this was one morning he would not have been able to stand Santini's habit of filling the emptiness and silence with pointless babble.

And now here they were.

Hawke's voice was low and gravel rough, his lips barely moving behind the base of his helmet as he added; "You go make nice for both of us, while I mind the store."

Hawke's eyes now moved to beyond Santini's back and shoulders to where Michael Coldsmith Briggs III, clad from head to toe in a neat white suit, shirt, shoes and socks, his white Panama hat placed at a jaunty angle on his head, and Dr Leigh Roland, were alighting from the back of the elegant limo, the government man, ever the gentleman, reaching out to steady the young woman, as she stepped out of the vehicle onto the uneven sandy ground.

Dr Leigh Roland had obviously come dressed for the party; Hawke found himself thinking, regarding her with cold, steady blue eyes, from the safety of Airwolf's cockpit.

She was wearing denim blue jeans and a black sweater under a thick black winter Parka coat with a fur lined hood, like the ones he and Dominic Santini were also wearing, which was left unzipped at the moment, and flat, calf high water proof black snow boots, also fur trimmed, but certainly not a fashion statement, with their thick, sturdy soles.

Her beautiful hair was woven into an intricate braid that hung over the top of the hood and all the way down her back and her hands were encased in thick, warm black thermal gloves.

She had a rucksack slung casually over one shoulder and in one hand she had a large white plastic container that looked like the kind of thing Hawke knew was used to transport human organs packed in ice, to hospitals, ready for transplantation. It was square, with a strong lock, a red cross painted over it and a metal handle on the top, and in the other hand, she had a regular black medical bag.

"Hey Dom," Hawke's slightly raised voice halted Santini in his tracks as he was about to turn away from the open door. "Don't forget to give her this," he reached behind his seat and then tossed a neatly folded Airwolf flight suit across the empty seat beside him, which Santini caught deftly. "And tell her to hurry up. The meter's running."

"Oh man …." Santini sighed deeply, rolling his eyes heavenward.

"And you might want to tell her to do something about her hair. The helmet is gonna be kind of a tight fit as it is …."

A nasty smile twisted its self at the corner of Hawke's mouth now, just visible around the mouthpiece of his helmet, and it sent a shiver down Santini's spine as he turned away and began to walk toward the limousine.

Hawke watched as Santini shook hands with Leigh Roland, introducing him self and then indicating back with his thumb over his shoulder to where Hawke remained at Airwolf's controls, obviously introducing him too.

Santini then handed her the flight suit, and Hawke watched her lips form the words "Is that really necessary?" in protest, before dropping the rucksack and bags on the ground at his feet, and snatching the flimsy garment from Dom's hands, she ducked back into the limousine and slammed the door shut behind her.

A few minutes later, during which time Dominic had secured her medical bag and the white container of medical supplies and equipment in Airwolf's small storage hold, and deposited her rucksack on the floor in the avionics bay beside his seat, Leigh Roland emerged from the back of the limo, her face set in a cold, hard, haughty mask, and handed Archangel the pile of neatly folded clothes she had just taken off, in lieu of the flight suit, which clung most alluringly in all the right places, Hawke noted, and pulled the Parka back around her body more securely.

Stringfellow Hawke watched with a smug smile pulling at his lips as she stalked the short distance between the limo and Airwolf, following in Santini's footsteps and stood in the door way as she waited for Santini to climb aboard.

As well as the dark scowl she wore, Hawke could not help noticing that she still looked a little pale, and sickly, dark circles under her eyes and fine lines of fatigue around the corners, and found himself wondering what had caused her sleepless nights of late.

As if he didn't know, he thought sourly, recalling his own lack of sleep these past couple of nights.

_**Welcome to insomniacs anonymous!**_

Santini settled himself in his seat and then handed Leigh Roland her rucksack, which she rested on the empty seat and from which she pulled out a lethal looking pair of scissors, and to Santini's horror and Hawke's surprise, pulled the long, thick, golden braid over her shoulder and swiftly hacked it off at a point just under her chin, then she stretched over the seat and dropped the intricately woven plait in Stringfellow Hawke's lap, her eyes fixed on his helmet encased face, the only sign of fire in those unusual golden irises being a brief flare of temper, along with an unmistakeable challenge.

_**So, that was how it was going to be ….**_

"Ah, ma'ma, you didn't have to do that …." Santini spoke in regretful tones.

"It'll grow back, Mr Santini. Now, can we get this show on the road, please?"

Leigh Roland watched as Hawke's fingers briefly caressed the golden braid of coiled hair in his lap, savouring the soft, smoothness of it between his fingers, unable as she did so, to stop herself from wondering if, like herself, he was suddenly recalling other times when he had run his fingers through that silken curtain, then watched him turn slightly in his seat to pop the door and picking up the braid as though it were a deadly serpent, a look of distaste twisting his features, Hawke dropped it outside into the dust.

When he turned back it was to find Leigh Roland already settled in the seat beside him, shaking loose her now extremely short and untidy hair and brushing the odd tuft from around her neck and shoulders, before accepting the helmet from Dominic Santini and easing it gently down on to her head.

"Com check. Can you hear me, Dr Roland?" Santini asked as he watched Hawke begin his pre-flight instrument check.

"Yes, Mr Santini. Loud and clear."

"Ok. Just sit back and enjoy the ride," Santini advised, glancing over to the back of Hawke's head, aware that the young man had said not a word, then glanced back to Leigh Roland who sat stiffly in her seat, head held rigidly as she fixed her eyes on the vista beyond the front windshield, even though there was nothing to see in the pitch blackness out there.

Santini found himself looking from one to the other of them, and wondering just what the devil was going on.

Something was way off here, Santini realised, but he had no idea what. He was just aware of some undercurrent, an ominous tension, and that it was making him feel very uncomfortable.

"You ever flown in a helicopter before, doctor?"

"Yes Mr Santini, many times. I know the drill …."

"Dom, did Archangel give you an update on the situation?" Hawke cut in, as he waited for Airwolf's main rotor to come on line and build up to full speed.

"Yeah, String," Santini was forced to turn his attention away from Leigh Roland. "He's arranged for a mid air refuelling somewhere up north, and will advise of time and rendezvous co-ordinates en route, and he and Dr Roland have advised the people up there at Nome that we are going to Whiteout to investigate and that we will report our findings to them as and when, weather permitting. They have our radio frequency, just in case they do hear anything from the station. The long range weather forecast for the area is for heavy storms closing in, but they estimate that we have a clear window of six hours to get to Whiteout."

"Still no word from the scientists?"

"No, and it can't be just because of the weather conditions now," Santini pointed out solemnly, measuring his words, aware that Leigh Roland could hear their conversation, and not wanting to distress her any more than she obviously already was. "Maybe the storms damaged their radio masts …."

"How long will it take for us to get up there?" Leigh Roland asked in a cold, tight little voice now, and when Hawke did not immediately offer her an answer, uncomfortable with the silence, and wishing that he could say something to his young friend about minding his manners, Dominic Santini opened his mouth and was just about to step in.

"Faster than any commercial airline. That is why you are here, after all, _**doctor,**_" Hawke snarled into the microphone in his helmet now, and Santini found himself squeezing his eyes shut, briefly, and wincing at the cold, menacing tone of his young friend's voice.

_**Ouch ….**_

"In this little lady, at top speed, take us about four and a half hours, doctor," Santini spoke up, in more reasonable tones, wondering what had gotten into Hawke, and how much longer it was going to go on.

Poor Leigh Roland, she must be thinking that his young friend was a real cold hearted and callous sonofa ….

"Top speed?"

"Mach 1, doctor. The speed of sound."

"Thank you, Mr Santini."

"Ok Dom, gimme the numbers …." Hawke jumped in now as he gently pulled back on the collective, lifting Airwolf up off the highway and then eased forward with the cyclic as she swiftly gained altitude, reminding Santini that he had work to do and that he wasn't there to keep their passenger entertained.

"Everything looks good back here," Santini advised, eyes roaming from one screen and instrument panel to another. "Clear skies. No unexpected air traffic and the weather radar is clear. All systems are up and running within normal parameters."

"Gimme turbos," Hawke growled once Airwolf had reached thirty six thousand feet and her top cruising speed of three hundred knots, and without preamble, Santini threw the switch and almost immediately all three occupants of Airwolf were flung back against their seats, briefly, as she leapt forward.

/a\

After a lengthy silence, punctuated only by requests from Hawke for updates on the readings on all of his scopes, and Santini's succinct responses, Dominic Santini let out a deep sigh and decided to try to draw the lady doctor into conversation.

"So doc, you're Australian, right?" He asked, fingers poised over the miniature keyboard before him in readiness should Hawke ask him for some fresh reading. "Where do you hail from?"

"I was born in Brisbane. Moved to Canberra with my folks when I was eight, and stayed there until I went to medical school, in Sydney," Leigh Roland replied in a soft, low, emotionless voice, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the endless unbroken expanse of black sky ahead.

"Your folks still there?"

"No. My mother died some years ago, and my father moved to Los Angeles."

"So you were there visiting with him?"

"Not exactly, Mr Santini. My father was sick. He had cancer," she paused to draw in a shaky breath now. "He died, three weeks ago."

"I'm real sorry ma'am …." Santini spoke in low tones, shuffling uncomfortably in his seat, kicking himself for his insensitivity. "I guess you don't need any of this about now."

"No Mr Santini, I guess I don't …."

"Say, String, didn't you tell me you were in Sydney, one time? When they shipped you home from Vietnam that last time, didn't you come back via Sydney?"

Dominic Santini quickly turned his attention to the young man seated at the pilot's controls, however when the young man made no response to his question, Santini screwed up his face in a frown.

"Guess not …." He finally answered his own question, filling in the awkward silence, as he noticed Dr Leigh Roland quickly move her head slightly to her right, to glance at Hawke, although from his position, her expression was unreadable, her face partly obscured by her helmet, Santini could just make out her eyes, wide now and there was something akin to surprise in those lovely, unusual, teddy bear irises.

"Must have gotten you mixed up with Sinjin …."

"Sinjin?"

"Sinjin Hawke. String's older brother …." Santini explained and watched her quickly turn her head away from Hawke once more.

"So, how long have you been up there at Whiteout?" Ten minutes later, Dominic Santini was again the one to break the uncomfortable silence, hoping that this time he was on safer ground.

"Six months. Since it was set up," Leigh Roland answered absently.

"And are there many women up there?" Santini asked with genuine interest.

"A few. Twenty five souls including myself, call Whiteout home, Mr Santini, five of whom are women, and all of whom are my friends," she told him solemnly now, and he could not help noticing her shoulders dip forward, briefly, as she hung her head, and he heard her draw in a swift, ragged breath.

Again Santini felt like kicking himself, then wondered if it was something other than sorrow at what she feared might have become of her friends. If instead, she was actually feeling nauseous.

Riding in Airwolf was much smoother than in most other helicopters, but sometimes, if you weren't used to it, the altitude and the pressurized cabin could upset even the most cast iron of stomachs.

"Are you ok, doc?" Santini asked with real concern.

"I'm fine," she assured in a tight voice.

"Don't get sick on us, doctor," Stringfellow Hawke's gruff, unsympathetic voice suddenly came over her earphones.

"I am not sick!" She snapped back. "I keep telling everyone, it was just a head cold!"

"Ok doc, keep your shirt on," Santini tried to soothe. "We're just concerned about you, that's all …."

"I'm fine," Roland assured once more, in a tight voice, and from behind her, Dominic Santini watched her shoulders rise in a deep sigh of irritation.

"So what really goes on up there at Whiteout?" Hawke snarled, keeping his attention firmly fixed on the windshield before him, and the slowly lightening skies beyond.

"What exactly do you mean by that?" Roland twisted around slightly in her seat and glowered at Hawke now. "I'm sure that Mr Coldsmith Briggs has already told you everything that you need to know about Whiteout Station."

"And I'm sure he didn't," Hawke snapped back, and Santini watched the exchange with interest.

"What exactly are you implying, _**Mister **_Hawke?"

The way she said his name sent a shiver down Hawke's spine, so cold and edged with undeniable anger and hatred and bitterness.

Hawke quickly twisted his head around so that he could face her, blue eyes blazing with rage and confusion, and he could clearly see the white hot anger burning in her eyes now, her pale face mostly concealed by the helmet, but he didn't need to see the expression on her face to know what she was feeling.

_**Why the hell was she angry with him?**_

What right did _**she **_have to be angry with _**him**_!

"Only that way up there, away from prying eyes, it would have been the ideal place to conduct some, shall we say, less orthodox kinds of research," Hawke sneered.

"Whiteout is a purely civilian operation, Mr Hawke," her tone was defensive now, but there was still a flare of anger in her amber eyes. "And I can assure you that all the research being conducted up there was monitored by the international scientific community."

"There was no _**secret**_ research, and there was nothing covert about our activities. It is all a matter of public record. _**We**_ were _**not**_ spying on the Russians, although I can't say for sure that _**they**_ weren't spying on _**us**_ …."

Her voice quivered just for a moment, causing Hawke's brow to furrow in a frown, catching something in her voice which gave him a strong sense that she was trying to conceal something.

"And we weren't working on any kind of weapon of mass destruction, if that is what you are thinking. We were looking for things to benefit mankind, not wipe him off the face of the earth …."

A sob caught in the back of her throat then, and Stringfellow Hawke felt a stab of guilt and remorse as he watched tears gather in her eyes now.

Dominic was right about her not needing the added worry and stress about what was going on up there at Whiteout Station, so close to losing her father, Hawke told himself, realising at the same time that her pallor and the obvious signs of sleeplessness and fatigue could also be due to her grief over her father's death.

However, he still couldn't shake the feeling that she was trying to conceal something from them.

_**But what?**_

_**Was it something about them?**_

_**Maybe the reason why she had turned her back and walked away from their future together? **_

_**Was her conscience bothering her? **_

_**Was she ashamed? **_

_**Embarrassed?**_

_**Guilty? **_

_**Afraid?**_

_**Or was it something about her self? **_

_**Was she sicker than she was saying? **_

_**She certainly looked it ….**_

_**Or, could it be about the true nature of what she and all those other scientists were really involved in, up there at the top of the world?**_

"I don't know what is going on up there, but I do know that it can't be good. I know that people that I have lived closely with for the last six months, and whom I have come to care a great deal for, my friends, are in some kind of trouble …. Living in those kinds of conditions is dangerous enough, _**Mister**_ Hawke, without inviting trouble …."

"I'm sure they'll be ok, doctor," Dominic Santini jumped in then.

"I wish I had your confidence, Mr Santini."

"Please, call me Dominic, doctor …."

"What do _**you**_ think happened up there?" Hawke demanded now, speaking over the top of Santini. "You know the place, the people, the conditions …." He prompted.

"I told you, _**I don't know**_, but I do know that if they were able, someone would have made contact by now …."

Her voice trailed away and she hung her head briefly, feeling tears spill over on to her cheeks, unable to blot out an image of Greg Chandler, grinning broadly at her, from her mind's eye.

"They're lives depend on maintaining contact with Nome. They're dependent upon them for food, fuel, equipment, weather updates, news from the outside world, their families …. and I know that once the weather had cleared up enough, someone would have radioed in to let Nome know what was happening," she paused to draw in a shaky breath.

"It's been eight days now, Mr Hawke. Eight days of complete isolation …. Try to imagine what that could do to a human mind …."

"Severe isolation sickness …."

"I see someone already thought of that," Roland sighed heavily. "But yes, that's what I fear. It's easy to go crazy when all you can see beyond your window is white, as far as the eye can see, that's when you can see anything at all, with deafening gale force winds constantly howling like a wild animal, hour after hour, night and day, relentless, and days on end when you can't tell ground from sky because there's no distinct horizon …."

"That's why it's called Whiteout. Just staying alive from day to day is tough enough. Life's little inconveniences can kill you, just like that. The power fails, you die. The wind rips off the roof of your habitation, you did. A fire breaks out, you die …. And these are things over which we have some modicum of control …. "

"I think we get the picture doc. But you have to understand that it's the nature of our business to be suspicious, and to cover all the angles …." Santini pointed out, glaring at the back of Hawke's head as he did so, wondering why it was his young friend was being so bullish and trying to provoke the doctor. "We're trying to keep an open mind, doc, but we have to be aware of all the possibilities."

"I know that, Mr Santini,"

"Call me Dom," Santini invited again.

"You think they're all dead, don't you?" Hawke persisted.

"String …."

There was a definite warning to lay off, in Santini's voice now, but as usual, Hawke ignored it and continued to scowl at her, his unrelenting, ruthless blue eyes demanding an answer.

"Yes, Mr Hawke …. Dear God …. I hope I'm wrong …. But …."

"You got someone special up there, doc?" Santini found himself asking, suspecting from her manner and tone that he knew the answer to that already.

"They were all special, Mr …. Dom …. But yes, there was someone who was very dear to me …."

"I'm sorry, doc."

"Happy now?"

Her voice was merely a whisper as she turned cold, desolate eyes filled with tears on Stringfellow Hawke now, allowing only him to see the true meaning behind her words, and once again he felt a stab of guilt shoot through him.

_**Was he happy now that he had hurt her?**_

_**Now that he knew that there had been someone else she had been able to love, after him?**_

She held his gaze for several seconds and then quickly turned her face away, lifting the back of her gloved right hand to try to blot away the tears rolling down her cheeks as best she could around the encumbrance of the helmet.

"I'm very tired," she said in a forlorn little voice, closing her eyes, and after letting out a soft little sigh, remained silent.

/a\

"Doctor Roland …." Dominic Santini leaned forward carefully in his seat in the rear engineering bay of Airwolf and laid his large warm hand very gently against Leigh Roland's right shoulder, yet despite his care, feeling her stir with a small start.

"We're about to refuel, doc. Sorry to disturb you, but we need you awake for this. It's just routine, but, need everyone to be alert, just in case …."

"Where are we?" She spoke in a groggy voice, sitting up straighter in her seat and rubbing her gloved hand over her eyes, wondering how long she had been out of it.

"Somewhere over northern Alaska, about an hour away from Whiteout Station."

"I'm sorry …." She blinked rapidly, unused to the sudden brightness of the vast, empty blue sky filling the window in front of her. "I didn't plan to sleep that long …."

"Don't be. Didn't miss anything, except boring in flight routine," Santini grinned at her. "Want some coffee?"

"What, you got a vending machine back there?" She forced a smile.

"Not exactly. Just a really big thermos," Santini grinned back jovially. "Well?"

"Yes, please."

"Hope you like it black, doc."

Leigh Roland nodded her acceptance and then Santini busied himself with pouring out the coffee into the black plastic cup off the top of the thermos flask and passing it carefully forward between the seats to her.

"ETA to that tanker Dom …."

Hawke's gruff voice broke in as the doctor was thanking Santini for the coffee, and she sipped at the hot brew gratefully, finding it a little awkward to raise to her lips with her cumbersome helmet still on, as she listened to Dominic Santini give Hawke the information that he had requested, and then watched in silent wonder as a few minutes later a huge USAF fuel tanker suddenly appeared before them, descending out of nowhere, to line up with the sleek, shark like black and white helicopter and began pumping fuel into her almost empty tanks.

"I spoke to Nome a little while ago, doc …." Santini advised after the tanker had finished the mid air refuelling of Airwolf and both he and Hawke relaxed in their seats once more.

Leigh Roland turned slightly in her seat to hand Santini back the empty cup from the top of his thermos and regarded him with undisguised fear and anxiety.

"They just gave me a weather update and wanted to make sure you are ok."

"Thank you, Mr Santini …."

"Dominic, or Dom. Remember?" He grinned, revealing a wide gap between his top front teeth.

"Dominic," she bestowed him with a gentle smile then. "I hope you told them that I'm fine." As she spoke, Leigh Roland shot a pointed, meaningful look toward their pilot, Stringfellow Hawke.

"Sure did." Santini replied with a conspiratorial grin meant only for her eyes.

"Any news?"

"Afraid not, doctor. Weather is closing in, oh, don't worry, we should get there ahead of it, but it will be close. Looks like we could be in for a rough couple of days up there …."

"So tell me something I don't already know …."

From the way that Leigh Roland was angling her head, Santini didn't think that it was him that she was speaking to now.

He suddenly had the strangest feeling that her words were aimed specifically at Stringfellow Hawke, and that they had absolutely nothing to do with what they might walk into at Whiteout Station.

From the way the young man quickly swivelled his head around to face the doctor, his penetrating sky blue eyes cold and menacing, full of resentment and unbridled rage, Dominic Santini had no doubt that her words had indeed found their intended mark.

/a\

"See anything yet, Dom?" Hawke asked in a low, tight voice after a further ten minutes of awkward silence in Airwolf's cockpit.

"Yeah …." Santini responded and there was something ominous in his tone of voice as he did so.

"We're there? Whiteout?" Leigh Roland edged forward in her seat, leaning forward to try to get a better look out of the front window, only to be greeted by an endless expanse of pristine blue/white virgin snow.

"No doctor," Hawke responded through clenched teeth, easing Airwolf's nose down a little in a bid to lose altitude. "Nome requested that we verify what happened to the supply plane," he told her coldly. "I've had Dom scanning the ground radar for any sign of wreckage," he let out a deep, shoulder raising sigh. "I guess he just found some."

"'Struth! Thanks for the warning, mister …." Roland's tone was scathing as she swallowed down the lump that had suddenly risen in her throat.

"Dom?" Hawke ignored her retort and waited for Santini to supply him with the exact co-ordinates of whatever it was that he had picked up on the ground radar and then directed Airwolf down toward the endless, featureless expanse of snow and ice below them.

"Oh God …." Leigh Roland groaned as Airwolf descended, search lights probing through a bank of low cloud and suddenly right there before her was the unmistakeable outline of the wreckage of the supply plane, a twisted, burned out tangle of metal, buried nose first in a deep snow bank, only the tail and one landing ski even remotely recognisable as belonging to an aircraft

Of course, Leigh Roland had been expecting it, had tried to brace herself in readiness, but the sight of it broke her heart.

"Oh God …." She sobbed as Stringfellow Hawke manoeuvred Airwolf in a circle around the smoke blackened wreckage and she spotted a prone figure, lying sprawled on the snow a few feet away.

"Life signs, Dom?" Hawke barked out, spotting the figure too now.

"Sorry, kid …."

"Take it down, Hawke!"

Leigh Roland's voice was hoarse with the tears she was fighting to hold back and she turned in her seat, eyes blazing, imploring him to do as she asked, and he started when he realised that it was the first time that she had actually called him by name.

"Dom?"

"Looks like there are two bodies still inside, String," Santini confirmed for the younger man. "Both up front. One definitely the pilot, one in the front beside him …."

"I said take it down, damn you!"

"What would be the point? They're obviously beyond any kind of help, doctor," Hawke responded coldly, without feeling.

"You bastard!" She hissed through clenched teeth. "You said Nome wants verification, so somebody has to go down there and identify the bodies!" She spat at him, tears spilling over her lashes and cascading down her cheeks now.

"You don't have to do that, doc …." Dominic Santini interjected. "It's pretty obvious who they are …."

"It's the last decent thing anyone can do for them. Now take this bloody thing down there and let me out!"

"Better do it, String …." Santini advised in a solemn voice, recognising the cold note of barely controlled hysteria in the woman's voice now.

Besides, he knew that she had a point.

If she could identify the bodies here and now, it would save someone a trip back out here later on. The poor souls down there could be left to rest in peace, at least until the weather improved and their bodies could be retrieved and returned to their families.

"If it were you down there, wouldn't you want your family to know, for sure?" Leigh Roland reasoned, her alto voice low and even, her eyes boring in to Hawke once more, and now he let out a deep sigh of resignation, as he too accepted that she had a valid point.

"Log the co-ordinates Dom, and contact Nome to let them know that we found the wreckage."

"Roger," Santini acknowledged.

As soon as Airwolf settled on the ground, Leigh Roland popped the door and before anyone could try to stop her, had her helmet off and was tumbling out into the ankle deep snow, pulling the hood of her coat up around her head, buffeted by the wind, and the down wash from the helicopter's main rotor, as she marched away, while Hawke kept Airwolf's engines idling gently.

"You wanna tell me what's going on with the two of you?" Dominic Santini demanded once Leigh Roland had alighted.

"Nothing is going on, Dom." Hawke growled in response.

"Like hell!" Santini exclaimed, his raised voice making Hawke wince. "Why the hell are you being so damned hard on her?" Santini demanded, but Hawke ignored his question, roughly pulling off his helmet and reaching out to pop his own door open, slipping out into the ankle deep snow, before turning around to drop his helmet on to the seat he had just vacated.

"None of this is her fault!" Santini reminded his young friend scathingly.

"I need some fresh air …. Stretch my legs. Better go make sure she's ok," Hawke mumbled vaguely, as he stepped back from Airwolf and then sealed the door shut behind him, leaving Santini to stare at him in open mouthed disgust.

As he rounded Airwolf's nose, Hawke paused and watched Leigh Roland walk up to the buried cockpit of the small fixed wing aircraft and peer inside, then she was moving swiftly, heading away from the wreckage, and now Hawke forced his legs to carry him away from the direction Leigh Roland was heading, knowing that she was making straight for the body lying on the ground a short distance from the plane.

Hawke wanted to take a look in the cockpit too. He wanted to look at the controls, to see if he could work out from their readings, and the position of the pilot and co-pilot, what might have caused the crash.

He trudged the short distance to the buried cockpit and reached up to wipe ice and snow from the cracked, smoke blackened windows with a gloved hand, then peered inside, the strong beams of Airwolf's search lights easily illuminating the interior, finding the ghastly sight of both pilots' badly charred bodies slumped forward over their controls, the windshield having disintegrated on impact causing glass to litter the floor and embed its self in their burned, bloodied faces, but the fire that had resulted from the crash had taken care of most of the rest of their body's.

Hawke couldn't make out much from the instruments, the glass fronts having been smashed either by the impact, or by the heat from the resulting fire, and then covered in snow.

So, the only thing he knew for sure was that they were indeed dead, as he forced himself to walk around the upended tail section of the plane and join Leigh Roland on the other side.

He found her hunkered down in a squatting position beside the body of a large white male.

Somehow she had managed to roll the body over toward her so that she could take a better look and perhaps identify him.

Hawke came to an abrupt halt when he saw that half the man's face had been burned away, as had most of his white blond hair and his chest, and he had to drag in a deep, steadying, restorative breath before he could move any closer.

"It's Sorenson," Leigh Roland told him, raising her eyes from the body to look up at him as she heard him approach, booted feet crunching on the icy ground. "Dr Sven Sorenson," she let out a ragged breath, which emerged as a plume of vapor in the frigid air. "He was going home to be with his wife while she had their baby …"

Her voice trailed away, and just for a moment, Hawke was puzzled by the pain he could suddenly see in her eyes.

_**Was this the guy? **_

_**The one she had said was very dear to her?**_

_**A married man with a child on the way?**_

Again Hawke felt his anger flare.

"How did he die?" He forced himself to ask.

"Take your pick," she scowled up at him, half rising, slowly, from her haunches now, shifting her position, her left hand releasing Sorenson's stiff body carefully.

It wasn't the most sensible thing that she could have done, inviting frost bite, but she had taken off her gloves and had been holding the body still, balancing it with her left hand while she probed and prodded the dead man with her right, and it was then that Hawke saw a flash of gold and a twinkle of rainbow colours, light reflecting off a nice size solitaire diamond, as allowing the body to settle, she moved her hands to steady herself and leaned over to get a better look at the wound on the back of the dead man's head.

Making Hawke immediately aware of the yellow gold wedding band and engagement ring that sat together perfectly on the third finger of her left hand.

_**So, she was married …. **_

_**And carrying on with this guy? **_

_**While his wife was stuck at home, having their baby?**_

"He's got a nasty bang on the head. Could have been a subdural haematoma, and of course, there are the burns. Maybe he inhaled a lot of smoke too …. Without doing a post mortem …."

Her voice trailed away as Leigh Roland suddenly raised her eyes to look back up at her companion, and instantly became aware of the hateful and murderous expression on Stringfellow Hawke's face, and her own features slid into a frown.

"Like I said, they're all beyond our help now, doctor …."

Hawke marched forward angrily and reaching out grabbed Leigh Roland roughly by the elbow, hoisting her to her feet, however, her reaction surprised him, as she twisted out of his grip and in the next instant the palm of her right hand was making contact with his left cheek with a resounding crack, before she staggered, tumbling backward, landing on her backside in the snow, sobbing and gasping for breath, her face as white as the snow that surround her and her expression one of shock and horror.

Hawke stopped in his tracks, feeling his cheek sting where her hand had made contact, but it wasn't the smarting pain he felt, or the humiliation of her slap, that stopped him. It was that sickly look on her face, the one that made his blood run cold, for it told him that she hadn't really expected to make contact with flesh and blood.

_**So what had she been thinking? **_

_**That her hand would pass through him as though through thin air, like he was a ghost or something?**_

"I'm sorry …. I shouldn't have done that …." Hawke found himself apologising as he took a step toward her, but she shuffled backward, away from him, then rolled out of his path and rose quickly to her feet.

"Leigh …." Her name sounded so odd, so foreign to him, and he realised that it was the first time that he had used her given name.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" She demanded breathlessly then watched as Hawke's gaze moved from her to the dead man and then back again. "You think …. Jesus, you've got a nasty, sordid mind …."

"So tell me I'm wrong. Tell me _**that's**_ your husband …."

"You bastard! Stay the hell away from me …." She seethed, eyes blazing like an inferno. "Just get me to Whiteout Station in one piece. I don't care what you do after that. You can go to hell for all I care. Just get me there …."

"What makes you think I'm not already in hell …." Hawke mumbled, but he was talking to himself for Leigh Roland was already marching back toward Airwolf, pulling on her gloves and dusting the powdered snow from her behind as she went, never once looking back.

_**You blew it.**_

_**Well, if that's the kind of woman she turned into, the kind of woman who snuck around behind her husband's back, the kind of woman who could have an affair with a married man while his wife was pregnant …. **_

_**You buddy, had yourself a lucky escape!**_

/a\

"Would someone tell me what the hell is going on here?" Dominic Santini demanded once Roland and Hawke had settled themselves back inside Airwolf and donned their helmets, still shocked by what he had just seen happen between the pair out there on the ice.

"Leave it, Mr Santini," Leigh Roland spoke in a low, deep voice, refusing to look at either Hawke or Santini, her gaze fixed firmly on the endless pristine white wasteland filling the windshield before her.

"You heard the lady, Dom …. Leave it," Hawke echoed and eased back on the collective, raising Airwolf back up into the frigid, turbulent air of the pre-dawn darkness.

"Dom, quit that," Hawke ordered in a stern voice a moment later, as inside his helmet he heard Santini grumbling in a low voice, the odd Italian expletive vaguely recognisable in an otherwise unintelligible jumble. "And get back on to Nome and tell them that Dr Roland identified Dr Sven Sorenson …."

Having no other choice, Hawke turned slightly to look at Leigh Roland, but she continued to stubbornly refuse to look anywhere except straight ahead.

"What about the pilot and co-pilot, Leigh?" He asked now, deliberately softening his tone, knowing what had greeted her when she had looked inside the wreckage and realising that it could not have been pleasant or easy for her. "Did you recognise them too?"

"Yes. The pilot was Ray Donovan and his co-pilot was Art Crane."

"You get that, Dom?"

"Sure, sure …."

Drawing in a deep breath, Hawke continued to watch Leigh Roland, knowing that he had to say something, because they were still faced with the necessity of having to work together, and he didn't want to make things any more uncomfortable than they already were.

The woman was grieving for the loss of her father ….

And now, her lover too ….

No wonder she was so angry with him.

_**Insensitive clod!**_

_**Who was he to judge her anyway? **_

_**What did he really know about her after all these years?**_

_**Maybe she was divorced?**_

But then why would she still be wearing her wedding and engagement ring, unless she was still in love with her husband, and was hoping for a reconciliation one day….

_**Or maybe she was a widow?**_

_**What did it matter?**_

_**It wasn't any of his business anyway!**_

"I'm sorry for your loss, Leigh. You must have loved him very much …."

"I love my _**husband**_ very much, _**Mister**_ Hawke …. My husband, Dr Gregory Chandler, who, for your information is one of those poor blighters still stuck up there at Whiteout …. I love _**him**_ very much. Not Sven Sorenson …." Her voice trailed away, and Hawke knew that she had once again lapsed into weeping, silently, and he also knew that he had stepped over the mark.

Way over.

But there was no way to take it back.

"I'm sorry, Leigh …."

This time he tried to make it sound as though he truly meant it, and, with that Hawke returned his attention to the control gauges before him, and the unblemished white vista ahead and below, all the time cursing himself for an idiot and berating himself for his loss of self control, but unable to forget the sick look on Leigh Roland's face after she had struck him, and wondering what it was that had put it there.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Chapter Four_**

**_Whiteout Station - The Arctic Circle._**

**_Somewhere on the Polar Ice Cap, Northern Alaska._**

**_Day Twelve – Wednesday, February 22nd, 1984._**

**_Approximately Local Time._**

"Man, I can't believe the sun still isn't up …." Santini quipped.

"You won't have long to wait, Mr Santini. Another thirty minutes or so, although you'll be lucky to actually see any sunshine. The days are slowly getting longer. Sunrise will be around eight thirty, and sunset will be somewhere around six o'clock this evening."

"Hey, we may get lucky and see the Northern lights while we're here …."

"Only if you plan to stand outside and freeze to death …. Ohmygod …."

Leigh Roland gasped in horror now as she spotted a plume of black and grey smoke rising from the horizon, and then the outline of Whiteout Station its self became clearer, rising up majestically out of the endless white wasteland, a darker silhouette against the still dark sky.

The twin radio receiving and transmitting masts at each edge of the compound were swaying ungainly in the strong cross winds that had suddenly blown up in the last five minutes and which were now buffeting and rocking Airwolf, as Hawke reduced her altitude, fighting with the controls, as he brought her in for a swooped fly by.

"They look in tact …." Hawke spoke absently, using all his strength and both hands to keep the magnificent helicopter flying straight and level, while also scrutinizing the masts and the high tension steel ropes securing them to strong anchors in the icy ground. "So at least we know that's not why they haven't been in contact …."

"May be something wrong with the radio transmitting equipment it's self …." Santini added as an after thought, noting the tension in Leigh Roland's shoulders and spine as she peered straight ahead.

The twin huddle of metal Nissan huts with domed corrugated steel roofs, that made up the habitat that was Whiteout Station was half buried in fresh snow on one side, and from the other, puffs of thin black and grey smoke rose, drifting lazily, high up into the crystal clear air, from the burned out ruins, the metal frame scorched and twisted by the heat of the inferno that had engulfed it.

"Ohmygod …."

"Dom, any sign of anyone down there?" Hawke asked, trying to sound hopeful as he guided Airwolf down and once again held her in a circular hovering pattern over the roofs of the cluster of metallic buildings.

Whiteout Station was made up of two long rectangular single story barrack style constructions formed by several metallic Nissan huts bolted together, one containing the main habitat, housing the scientists sleeping quarters, kitchen, recreation area cum dining room, as well as the Administration area with Dr Wilhelm De Wit's office, sickbay and the telecommunications shack where the weather radar and high powered radio were located.

The various research labs and work stations were housed in a similar construction slightly separate from the main block, connected by a wooden framed walkway covered by a corrugated plastic roof.

Completely separate from the main block were several out buildings, a couple of large storage shacks and a vehicle shed which housed several expensive looking snow mobiles and a tractor.

The column of smoke was rising lazily from the second building.

"The labs …." Leigh Roland confirmed as Hawke turned Airwolf around in a lazy circle to survey the burned out ruins.

Hawke found it ominous that no-one came rushing out to see what was happening, as they hovered low over the buildings, kicking up ice and snow and making enough noise to raise the dead.

"Dom?"

"Nothing, String …."

Santini confirmed his worst fears, as Hawke brought Airwolf around for one last circle, then raised her nose and gained enough altitude to guide her away from the smouldering ruin, looking for somewhere not too far away to set her down.

"What the hell happened here?" Leigh Roland asked in a voice edged with shock. "And where the hell did every body go?"

Once Airwolf was down on the ground, as Hawke closed all the switches and made sure that everything was shut off, pulling off his helmet, he turned to Leigh Roland, who already had her helmet off, just as she was about to pop open her door.

"Wait for us, doctor," Hawke told her not unsympathetically now. "I know you want to find out what happened here, but we should stay together," he told her gently, and was relieved when she settled back in her seat and nodded her assent.

Hawke could see that her face was terribly pale, and there was shock and confusion and fear in her lovely eyes now and his heart went out to her.

He could understand her having a moment's hesitation about facing whatever had happened here, alone, and wanted to let her know that she did not have to.

"String, that storm is coming in real fast," Dominic Santini said as he too pulled off his helmet, a note of anxiety in his voice too, Hawke could not help noticing. "We'd better find some place to secure the Lady …."

"Yeah Dom, but first we'd better take a look around."

"I'm not kidding, String. There's a huge storm front coming in real fast …."

"Ok, Dom …."

"Warehouse number two should be big enough to accommodate your helicopter," Leigh Roland chipped in, finally realising that the Lady that Dominic Santini was referring to was the aircraft that they were all sitting in, and she pointed to the second of two large storage sheds a few hundred feet away. "Do you know how to drive a snow mobile?"

"Not much call for them in my part of California …." Hawke's grin was warm and genuine now, his first real effort to try to break the ice and get along with Leigh Roland, and she seemed to recognise it as such, for in response, something in her own expression softened, just a little.

"Guess I'll just have to learn on the job …." He quipped, realising what she had in mind.

Using one of the snow mobiles to tow Airwolf into the storage shed out of the worst effects of the storm.

"I certainly don't feel like pushing her all that way. What about you, Dom?"

"Sure, if you want me laid flat on my back for a month …."

"I don't understand where everyone is …. Someone should have come out to see what all the fuss was about …." Leigh Roland's voice wobbled as it trailed away, and she hung her head briefly, as she realised the implications of what she was saying.

No-one was coming ….

No one could come, because they were all dead.

"C'mon, let's get moving …. That storm could hit any time, right Dom?"

"Right, String …."

All three alighted from Airwolf, and as she waited for them to join her, Leigh Roland watched both Hawke and Santini with horror, as both men suddenly pulled out handguns from the holsters on their belts and checked to make sure that the weapons were primed and loaded.

"You brought guns?" She choked out, aghast. "I can't believe you brought guns here!"

"Settle down Dr Roland, they're purely a precaution, after all, from the get go we knew this wasn't exactly an invitation to lunch at the Whitehouse," Hawke drawled.

"But …."

"Doctor, we had to be prepared to defend ourselves," Santini backed Hawke up, securing the safety catch on his weapon and restoring it to its holster. "We didn't know what we might be walking into. We still don't," he reasoned gently.

Letting out a long, shuddering breath, a plume of vapor erupting from her nose and mouth into the frigid air around them and quickly snatched away by the torrid wind, Leigh Roland gave a grudging nod of acceptance. After all, if there really was something sinister going on here, she might be grateful for the protection of these two men and their weapons.

"Let's not stand around freezing to the spot …." Santini quipped, hoping to dispel the tension that had suddenly grown around Hawke and Roland once more.

"Right …." Hawke snarled as he too engaged the safety catch on his weapon and returned it to the holster on his belt.

Pulling their Parka coats firmly around them, and their hoods around their heads and faces to protect them from the bitter, biting wind, they trudged through the snow and ice toward the vehicle shed and once inside, Hawke and Santini hunted around for a rope that would be sturdy enough to secure around Airwolf's landing gear and tow her inside, while Leigh Roland checked out the snow mobiles to make sure they were working.

"I don't understand …."

She stood beside a brightly painted snow mobile, it's bright, garish, orange, black and red color scheme ensuring that it would be easily seen against the back drop of the endless white of the world outside.

A frown was tugging down her brow as she regarded the vehicle.

"It's crazy, but it looks like somebody took a bloody wrench to the thing and just smashed it …."

"What?" Santini responded in surprise, walking over to join her and surveyed the damage to the vehicle, finding the glass fronted instrument dials indicating speed and engine temperature and fuel levels smashed, and a deep depression in the black plastic dashboard.

"What about the others?"

"Christ, someone rammed a screwdriver into the ignition of this one …." Roland exclaimed, indicating to another garishly painted vehicle. "But why?"

"Looks like someone didn't want anyone to be able to leave Whiteout Station," Hawke growled through clenched teeth. "Someone wanted to make sure no-one could raise the alarm or summon help …."

"But that's ridiculous. These are short range vehicles at best. Everyone knows that you couldn't get far on one of these. It just doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense!" Roland railed.

"This one looks like its might be ok …."

Santini had moved to a third snow mobile, the front windshield of which was cracked, but upon closer scrutiny, looked to be in good working order, but the fuel indicator showed that it was almost out of gas.

"Not much gas in the tank, but enough for what we need it for."

"Fine." Hawke exhaled heavily. "Then let's get on with it."

"How can I help?" Leigh Roland asked as Hawke and Santini quickly located a coil of sturdy rope and headed back outside.

"Just stay out of the way," Hawke growled as he stomped off, snatching the rope from Santini's hand as he passed the older man, heading back to Airwolf, where he began winding the rope around for her right rear landing gear.

"I'm sorry ma'am, I don't know what's gotten into him …." Santini found himself apologizing as he watched Hawke work. "He's usually much prettier company …."

"Forget it, Mr Santini …. I guess we're all a little frazzled right now," Leigh Roland smiled, appreciating the gesture from the older man, sensing that he was genuinely confused by the younger man's behaviour. "You two go back a long way?"

"Sure do. Known him since he was in diapers …. He's a good man, Dr Roland. Caught some tough breaks over the years, and he's real hard on himself …. But his heart is pure. He acts kinda tough, but deep down inside …. You just have to give him a chance to grow on you, is all …."

Dominic Santini grinned broadly, and it was easy for the young woman to see the warmth and affection the older man had for his young friend in his gentle grey eyes.

"Better go give him a hand," Santini smiled at her again. However, Leigh Roland's gaze was firmly fixed on the bent figure of Stringfellow Hawke, and the older man was suddenly shocked by what he saw, the expression on her pale, elfin face, and in her unusual amber eyes, a hunger and heartache like no other he had ever experienced, a deep grief, and yet, he could also see love and hatred, reverence and pure, unadulterated joy, and for a moment it took his breath away.

_**What was it between these two?**_

_**Why were they so antagonistic toward each other?**_

_**How could there be so much love …. **_

_**And how could a person also harbour so much anger and hatred for another?**_

What had his young friend done to deserve those things from Leigh Roland?

There was something else going on here, beside this mission, Dominic Santini felt sure, and he meant to get to the bottom of it.

If Hawke wasn't going to spill the beans, then he would have to see what he could do about coaxing some answers from this strangely ambiguous young woman, before both of them drove him crazy.

Or they killed each other.

/a

"String …." Santini approached Hawke on long, ground eating strides and without hesitation, the look on his face conveying to the younger man that he meant business, as he drew up beside him.

"Spit it out, Dom …." Hawke invited with a deep sigh, his gaze drifting briefly over Santini's shoulder to where Leigh Roland stood gazing forlornly at the silent, still and obviously deserted buildings that made up Whiteout Station, her home, before returning to regard his old friend's angry countenance.

_**Oh boy ….**_

_**Now you're for it!**_

"I don't know what the hell is going on with you String, but it stops, right now," Santini declared, a little breathlessly, hands planted firmly on his wide hips.

"The lady is having a hard enough time as it is without having to deal with you sniping at her, and snapping and scowling and snarling …. Oh, I know, she's been doing her fair share of it too. I ain't blind, or stupid …." Santini paused briefly to draw in a breath.

"But one of you has to be the grown up here, and I don't relish the idea of having to play referee for the rest of the duration. Capice?"

"Yeah, Dom. I read you. Loud and clear …." Hawke wrestled with a wry half smile as he regarded his old friend, full of bristling indignation on Leigh Roland's behalf, but grew serious once again when he could clearly see the confusion, and concern for him in Santini's rheumy grey eyes.

"What is it with you two? I've never did see two people rub each other up the wrong way like you two do!"

"Ok, Dom, neutral corners from now on. I promise. Can't say the same for the good doctor, but …."

"Smart ass. All I'm saying is that she's going through a lot right now, emotionally, so maybe she hasn't got quite the control over her temper that she might usually have …."

"But I don't have any excuses, right?"

"Well …."

"Ok, Dom," Hawke let out a deep sigh, shuddering as a finger of icy wind found its way inside his coat and tugged at his flight suit, and he realised that the weather conditions were swiftly deteriorating.

"You two know each other?" Santini pressed.

"Maybe …. In another life …." Hawke answered cryptically.

"So what the hell did you do to her, in this other life?"

"What makes you think _**I**_ did something to _**her**_? Couldn't it be the other way around?"

"Not if what I just saw in her face is anything to go by."

"And that was?"

"Anger, hatred …. Love …."

Santini's words drew the young man up straight and he fixed his penetrating, questioning blue eyes on the older man's face.

"That's right, kid. She might be acting and talking like she hates you, but her eyes can't lie …. And when a woman loves like that …."

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned …." Hawke breathed raggedly.

"And when love like that turns to hate …."

"I'll have to remember to watch my back …."

"I'm serious, String!" Santini snapped impatiently. "What is it with you two?"

"Not now, Dom," Hawke reached out now and laid a reassuring hand on his old friend's broad shoulder, touched by his concern and just a little confused by what the older man thought he had seen in Leigh Roland's eyes.

_**Love?**_

_**Yeah, sure.**_

_**She loves you so much she's about ready to deck you!**_

_**Now hate me, well that I can buy, although I don't know why. **_

_**I never gave her any cause to hate me ….**_

"As far as I know, I didn't scorn this lady. More like the other way around …."

This comment made Dominic Santini even more curious, and he pinned Hawke with hard, demanding grey eyes.

"Some other time," Hawke sighed deeply now. "Let's just concentrate on getting the Lady inside, out of the storm. Weather's closing in real fast, just like you said."

Hawke's gaze drifted to the vast expanse of white all around and the eddies of new snow, being whipped up into a frenzy by the increasingly gusting wind.

"Don't think you're off the hook just yet, mister …."Santini glowered at him. "But I guess you're right."

"Fine, now grab the other end of this rope …."

/a

Shuffling impatiently, trying to keep warm, whilst also obeying Stringfellow Hawke's order to stay out of the way, Dr Leigh Roland watched as Hawke and Santini, working quietly and efficiently as a team, rigged the tow rope to the helicopter's three landing wheels, and then Hawke trudged back to the vehicle shed and got the snow mobile fired up, then after securing the tow rope to the back of the snow mobile, Hawke drove it slowly and carefully out of the vehicle shed while Dominic Santini sat inside and steered the beautiful sleek, shark-like black and white helicopter while Hawke guided her safely inside warehouse number two.

As she watched them working, Leigh Roland found herself wondering about the two of them.

They were obviously used to working as a team, but there was also something familiar about the way they spoke to each other, a trust and affection that went beyond the day to day association of work colleagues.

A deep friendship.

Yet, she couldn't help feeling that it was even deeper than that.

Dominic Santini had hinted that he had known the younger man since he was a child, so why had Hawke never said anything about him all those years ago?

_**Stringfellow Hawke.**_

Now there was a study in ambiguity ….

_**Damn him!**_

She couldn't take her eyes off Hawke, marvelling at the sight of him, her breath catching in her throat.

He looked so good.

_**Too damned good.**_

_**Better than he had any right to!**_

And she should be glad.

Oh yes ….

So very glad.

At first, it had been a terrible shock, to see him standing there, large as life, so alive; she had thought that her heart had stopped dead in her chest ….

Then, after the shock had worn off ….

Well, she didn't want to dwell too deeply on that ….

Her heart had rejoiced ….

Just for an instant ….

And then she had been overwhelmed by guilt and shame and a deep rooted sense of betrayal ….

She shouldn't still feel this way about a man she hadn't seen in almost thirteen years, when the man she loved, her darling Greg was in danger ….

She did not know how it was possible, but Hawke was here, and looking so healthy and well ….

And yes, she was glad.

But, she silently conceded, he wasn't the man that she remembered, and perhaps that was no bad thing.

The charming, endearing, gentle boy of thirteen years ago was gone, replaced by a rigid, cold, hard, emotionless stranger ….

The boy she had known had been open minded.

He had been quiet, reserved and thoughtful, but he had been warm and sensitive, shy and so innocent, compassionate and generous.

The man she was now confronted with was petulant and belligerent, judgemental and unyielding, and antagonistic.

Confrontational.

_**Down right hostile!**_

_**But why, dammit?**_

_**From the way he was acting, anyone would think that he believed that he was the injured party!**_

_**What had she ever done to hurt him?**_

_**She had loved him!**_

_**Oh God yes, …. **_

_**And how!**_

_**And she had paid a high price for that love ….**_

She would never have thought it of the boy she had fallen in love with all those years ago.

But, who knew what he had had to face in the years in between?

The war in Vietnam?

That conflict, she was well aware, had changed many a young man's outlook on life, radically altered even the most stable of personalities ….

Death?

His own, and that of others close to him, comrades in arms, family?

Some times life threw stuff at you that forced you to take a road that you might not otherwise have chosen for yourself.

It had happened to her, so maybe that was what had happened to Hawke too?

She would never have believed that she would have become so introverted, so scared to love and feel any kind of closeness with another human being.

Circumstances had made her shut herself off from life, to turn in on her self and become insular, trusting no-one, caring for no-one, pulling a tough shell around herself and allowing no-one to get close.

That was something that she would never have dreamed might happen, back then either.

She had always been such a free spirit, an over achiever, outgoing and open to anything new and exciting.

Life had always been there to live, to experience, to grab by the throat and make the most of, but then, after Hawke, life had been something to hide away from, because living was simply too painful to endure.

It had taken her a long time to come to terms with life after Hawke, and finally move on.

_**Twelve lousy years to be exact!**_

Her relationship with a young man who had told her only that his name was Hawke, had been just as surprising and enlightening for her, she being just as naïve and innocent as he, but no-one could have predicted how it would turn out, or how it would affect Leigh Roland, for the rest of her life.

And now, here he was again.

This Hawke was a stranger.

For a start, he had a first name.

_**Stringfellow …. **_

No longer to be thought of merely as Hawke, Captain S.

No wonder he had been so reluctant to tell her what the S stood for!

_**Stringfellow ….**_

And he had a brother ….

Sinjin ….

Another damned S. Hawke ….

_**If only she had known!**_

_**Damn him!**_

If only he had trusted her …. Opened up to her just a little more ….

What did he think she would do? Trace him back to his home in the US and try to black mail him, bleed him dry?

He could have saved her so much heartache and despair, if only he had been honest with her from the start ….

_**Bloody fool!**_

_**Which one of us?**_

_**Him?**_

_**Or me?**_

And it looked like he still didn't trust her.

He already thought the worst of her.

_**Dratted man!**_

_**Well, let him!**_

Perhaps that was for the best too.

He didn't need to know the truth.

_**Why should they both be hurt? **_

She had borne the pain for twelve years ….

She would continue to bear it until the day that she died ….

But, there would be nothing to be gained by passing that pain on to him too.

However, she couldn't help thinking that there was some kind of sick irony that Hawke should be here right now ….

So alive.

So vibrant.

So imposing ….

Overbearing ….

So determined to get in her face, under her skin, make her uncomfortable and hurt her ….

Suspicious, distrustful, just waiting to catch her out in a lie ….

Angry and bitter and confused and silently demanding answers ….

So cruel ….

With his nasty, dirty, suspicious mind!

And it was so unfair!

When Gregory Chandler, the first man since Hawke himself, the _**only**_ man since Hawke, who had touched her heart, the man she had only so recently allowed herself to come to love, her sweet, endearing, funny, shy, dopey, beloved husband, Greg, might very well be dead.

_**How ironic was that!**_

By the time they were done stowing Airwolf, the previously clear but night dark sky had begun to lighten, the sun having risen as Leigh Roland had predicted, but along with the increase in natural daylight, the sky had darkened in a more ominous fashion, thick grey cloud cover dropping to almost obscure the tops of the distant mountain range to the south, and all three of them were finding it hard to keep their feet, buffeted by the strong wind, as they retrieved their various bags and belongings from Airwolf's storage hold, and trudged, their bodies bowed, bending against the force of the wind, toward the main habitat of Whiteout Station, all relieved to finally get inside out of the elements.

"Damn …." Leigh Roland stopped abruptly causing Stringfellow Hawke to walk right into her back, as they all three stumbled breathlessly across the threshold into the darkness within. "Power's off," she grumbled, pointing out the obvious, as she reached out to the nearest steel wall to keep her balance.

"Bloody generators! Watch your step fellas …." She warned, turning around and coming face to face with the stern, stubborn features of Stringfellow Hawke.

"You two stay here, while I go take a look at the generators …."

"No way, doctor. Wither thou go-est, we go-est," Hawke snarled then took a step backward, bumping into Dominic Santini who was standing close behind him, in the process, as he remembered his promise to his old friend about watching his temper.

Santini was right.

None of this was Leigh Roland's fault.

She was in this with them too.

Whatever it turned out to be.

"We all stay together, remember?" Hawke sighed softly. "So, where are these generators?"

"One hundred and eighty degrees thataway …." She pointed in the direction they had just come in, over Santini's wide shoulders.

"Oh swell …."Santini grumbled.

"The power shack is located around the back of warehouse number one. There are two generators supplying all the power here. They work independently of each other, alternately, twelve hours on, twelve hours off, on a pre-set timer," Leigh Roland explained.

"Sometimes there is a few seconds delay when they switch over, but the whole system was designed so that one generator was always 'live'. One thing that is _**not **_supposed to happen, because our survival here depends on heat and light and fuel for cooking, is for _**both **_generators to be off line at the same time. Never happens. Not even during routine maintenance."

"Then we'd better get out there and take a look. All of us."

"You two kids go out and play nice, I'll just stay here …." Santini grouched.

"About turn, Dom, One for all and all for one …." Hawke cajoled, trying to twist around so he could see Santini's face but his over night bag got hung up in Leigh Roland's coat and he was effectively trapped.

"Ah, String …. What's the worst that could happen if I stay here?"

"You could freeze to death?" Hawke mumbled as he disentangled himself, throwing Leigh Roland an apologetic look as he did so.

"So I'll do it a lot slower in here than out there. If you hadn't noticed, these old bones don't move so swiftly as the two of you …."

"Dom …." Now there was a definite warning in Hawke's voice.

"Ok, ok …."Santini harrumphed but turned around carefully and headed back outside, the howling of the wind assailing all their ears immediately he put his shoulder to the heavy swing door and shoved it open.

"On second thoughts …." Santini came to an abrupt halt and again Hawke found himself coming to an abrupt halt, running into Santini's back.

"Dom …."

"I'm staying put," Santini said defiantly, and to prove his point he stood to one side, making room for Hawke to move past him at last.

"It's ok, Mr Santini," Leigh Roland stepped in now, growing impatient with both men. "I can manage on my own …."

She shouldered her way past both of them and marched out into the darkening world outside, drawing her Parka hood close around her head once more as she realised that it was starting to snow.

"What?" Santini asked as he saw the sour look on Hawke's face, as the younger man watched Leigh Roland striking out across the compound. "What? Where do you think I can go?" Santini scowled, then added in a somewhat sheepish voice; "Except maybe the bathroom?"

"Why didn't you just say so?" Hawke let out a shoulder raising sigh of exasperation and dropping his over night bag at Santini's feet, pulled his own coat hood back up around his head

"'Cos I don't need you to hold my hand?" Santini sneered as he noted the amusement in the younger man's eyes.

"That's what you get for bringing that bottomless thermos …."

"One day, sonny, your prostrate will be as old as mine is right now, and you'll be laughing on the other side of your face!"

"I'd rather you waited until we got the lights up. Don't want you breaking a leg, stumbling around in the dark …." But the pained look on the older man's face told Hawke of the real discomfort Santini was in, and that he had already waited beyond his endurance.

"I got a flash light in my bag. I'll be fine." Santini assured.

"Ok. Just be careful you don't get frost bitten some place vital …."

And with that as his parting shot, Hawke ducked outside into the building Arctic storm and strode quickly after Leigh Roland, leaving Dominic Santini muttering darkly in his wake.

/a

Stringfellow Hawke quickened his stride in the now swiftly falling snow, the wind buffeting his slender frame and almost knocking him off his feet as he turned the corner around the building that Leigh Roland had indicated was warehouse number one, and almost ran into her once more.

She had come to an abrupt halt outside the open door of the power shack, the sturdy wooden door flapping violently in the wind, hanging precariously by one hinge, the other wrenched loose.

As Leigh Roland made to take a step forward, Hawke reached out and put his arm out in front of her, across her chest, blocking her path, and with the other hand reached for his belt, unsnapping the fastening of his holster and slowly withdrawing his hand gun.

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me …."

"Get behind me, Leigh …." Hawke snarled through clenched teeth, bringing the weapon up, cupping the stock with both hands and moving ahead of Leigh Roland, as he carefully stuck his head around the open door frame and glanced quickly around inside.

The wooden shack was empty, and to his dismay, he saw immediately that someone had taken a fire ax to both generators, totally smashing the dials on the front and severing the fuses and wires.

"What the hell …." Leigh Roland gasped from over his shoulder as she too surveyed the damage to both electrical generators. "What bloody drongo did this!" She railed in incredulity, as Hawke moved forward, into the building and out of the ravages of the wind.

"'Struth!" Leigh Roland strode into the building, hot on Hawke's heels and marching straight up to the first generator, gave it a swift kick in frustration and anger.

"Salvageable?" Hawke found himself asking as she scanned the shattered dials and switches and severed wires.

"What do you think? I'm a doctor, not a bloody electrician!" She lunged out with her foot once more and gave the redundant machine another swift kick, and Hawke found himself trying to smother a grin.

She was still magnificent when she was mad, he found himself thinking with genuine pleasure.

_**All heat and fire ….**_

_**Passion ….**_

And then the smile was wiped off his face, as Leigh Roland suddenly buried her face in her hands and began to sob raggedly.

Motivated purely by instinct, Hawke moved forward and reached out for the distressed young woman, pulling her roughly to him and she buried her face in the soft material of his coat as she wept bitterly, but then just as suddenly she seemed to remember that she was supposed to be angry with him, and roughly pulled away from him, swiftly putting space between them as she staggered across the small shack and leaned against the second disabled generator.

"Take it easy, Leigh. No-one blames you for being upset …." Hawke told her softly, watching as she fought to regain her composure, fighting back the tears.

"Well, gee thanks. Don't worry, I'm not going to get hysterical and go loco on you!" She snapped back sarcastically.

"Leigh," Hawke took a step forward, then stopped as she raised her head and stared at him with big, luminescent amber eyes. "Can we bury the hatchet, please?"

"Where would you like me to bury it? I think you'd look pretty good with a center parting!" She shot back venomously and Hawke let out another deep sigh of frustration.

_**Well, I guess you walked right into that one ….**_

And if he wasn't so damned mad, he would have laughed out loud, unable to shake the brief mental image of an ax sticking out of the top of his head.

"You know what I mean …." He added in low tones. "I'm trying to offer an olive branch."

"You know where you can shove it, mate …."

"We still have to work together, Leigh. Can't we do it in a civilized manner? Please? I'm trying to make an effort here …."

"Thirteen years too damn late, Hawke …."

"And whose fault is that!"

Hawke shot back, his top lip twisting nastily, but was horrified to see what little color there was left in Leigh Roland's face suddenly drain away, and for a moment she swayed, reaching out to the generator for support, then just as quickly hot color was flooding through her cheeks, in stark contrast to a moment before, and her eyes were blazing with outrage and anger.

"You bastard …." She pushed off from the generator and made to storm out of the shack, but Hawke stepped into her path and again grabbed her elbow as she made to brush past him, stopping her, meeting her gaze with ruthless, angry blue eyes.

"You don't know how big a bastard I can be, Leigh," he ground out between clenched teeth. "It's the third time you've called me that. Next time, don't be surprised if I show you what a bastard I can be," he warned on a low growl, but then relaxed his hold on her elbow as he saw her eyes filling with tears once more, and allowed her to wrestle free of his grip, storming out into the turbulent weather outside.

_**Oh terrific.**_

_**Well done.**_

_**Well done!**_

_**If that's you trying to make nice ….**_

_**Damn!**_

She was determined not to make this easy ….

For either of them.

Flicking on the safety catch and holstering his weapon once more, Hawke drew in a ragged breath and then strode over to take a closer look at the damage to the generators, wondering if there was something that he and Dom could do to get at least one of them working again, but after a few minutes of close scrutiny, he decided that they were beyond fixing, and turned around, drawing his coat closer around his slender body, trudged back toward the main habitat.

Half way across the compound he noticed that Leigh Roland's smaller footprints in the fresh snow, suddenly veered off, heading away from the main habitat, skirting around it toward the other burned out building.

"Damn woman!" He raged as, head down, he trudged after her.

"Crazy female!" Hawke ground out as he rounded the corner of the main habitat and was almost blown off his feet as huge gust of wind caught hold of him, as he moved out of the relative shelter of the building and stumbling, skidding on a patch of ice, Hawke was suddenly confronted by another sprawl of low buildings.

It was a row of small wooden sheds, not unlike the kind of thing you could find in any suburban garden, stood shoulder to shoulder, side by side, half buried in fresh snowfall, the door of one banging against the wall of another, flung violently back and forth by the raging wind, and now the snow was falling even harder and faster, and he had to peer through the gloom as he sought out the figure of Leigh Roland.

Hawke spotted her at last, staggering out of the shed with the open door, arms full of hurricane lanterns and flash lights, which she dropped onto the icy ground beside some other things that she had already retrieved from the shed, before diving back inside out of the wind and snow.

"Leigh!" Hawke yelled breathlessly as he came to a stop in the door way, and leaning heavily against the sturdy frame, found himself looking into a store room stocked from floor to ceiling with emergency heating and lighting equipment.

"There you are!" Leigh Roland yelled back, then waved at the stuff she had already dropped outside. "Make yourself bloody useful!"

"Yes ma'am …." Hawke offered her a closed two fingered, sarcastic salute to his brow, then bent down and lifted a portable primus cooking stove and a bottle of propane gas, balancing them one under each arm, carefully, and then he reached down for the hurricane lanterns and flashlights as well.

"You coming?"

Hawke was having to shout now to make him self heard over the howling gale, huge snow flakes tumbling around him, some as big as dimes, stinging his cheeks and eyes as the blizzard thickened around them.

"Right behind you …." Leigh Roland yelled back, turning around to reveal that she was lugging two large crates.

"What the hell have you got there?" He growled, wanting to snatch the crates from her as she struggled under their weight, but he already had his hands full.

"Portable heaters. Gas powered. Emergency back ups for if the generators packed up …." She grinned at him, but it was totally humourless.

"Then you better hope someone has a box of matches …." Hawke growled sarcastically.

"You betchya! We planned for everything, Mr Hawke, because it is the only way to stay alive up here. Welcome to the top of the world!"

"Leigh …. Can't we call a truce? Just until we find out what happened here?"

"Truce? I didn't know we were at war!" She retorted and started to walk briskly back toward the main habitat, dragging and stumbling, as she hauled the crates and battled against the deteriorating weather, leaving Hawke to squint after her through the gloom, heaving a heavy, shoulder raising sigh.

_**Dammit!**_

Oh yes, she was determined not to make this easy ….

For either of them.

Trouble was, the situation had changed, and not for the better, he was willing to bet, and now it was imperative that they put their differences to one side, and work together.

Their very lives could depend upon it.

_**Ok …. **_

_**Don't say I didn't try ….**_

_**Have it your way, lady!**_

_**For now ….**_

/a

Back inside, Hawke and Roland stumbled over the threshold, laden down with arms full of supplies and flashlight in hand, Dominic Santini hurried toward them.

"You guys ok?" He asked with genuine concern, anxious grey eyes raised to the corrugated steel roof over their heads to where the eerie sound of the wind whistled and moaned through the small gaps in the eaves, probably expecting to see it ripped off any minute now, Leigh Roland thought to herself. "I can't believe it got so bad out there so fast!"

"Yeah, right. You ok?" Hawke panted as he deposited the load he was carrying carefully down on the floor and pulled off his hood to shake off the thick layer of snow that had built up on it as he trudged the short distance from the sheds and ran a hand over his face to remove the moisture from melted snowflakes. "Better?"

"Much," Santini found himself grinning. "Nice facilities! It's thataway …. If you feel the need," he smirked, indicating with his thumb through a set of heavy swing doors to Hawke's immediate left.

"Then maybe now you'd care to give us a hand?" Hawke growled impatiently.

"Sure. What ya got?"

"Survival, Mr Santini. It's only a temporary fix I'm afraid, but, something to provide a little heat, light, and the means to make us something hot to eat and drink …"

Leigh Roland, also breathless, deposited the crates she had half carried and half dragged, stubbornly refusing any help from Hawke because he too was laden down, from the sheds.

"Nice," Santini grinned, carefully bending to pick up a paraffin fired hurricane lantern, giving it a gentle shake to see how full it was. "Anyone got a match?"

"Anything?" Hawke spoke out of the corner of his mouth, throwing Santini a meaningful look, but the older man gently shook his head, as they watched Leigh Roland bend and retrieve a flashlight from Stringfellow Hawke's feet.

Flicking it on, she cast the wide, powerful beam ahead of her and moved deeper inside, through another set of heavy swing, fire doors straight ahead of them, and into to a room, which, although only dimly illuminated by the twin beams from hers and Santini's flashlights, Hawke could see was some kind of reception or lobby area which opened out into a lounge type room, furnished with comfortable chairs and a sofa.

"No sign of anyone?" Hawke deliberately kept his voice low and enough distance between himself and Leigh Roland so that she would not overhear him, hand poised over the holster on his belt, just in case he needed to draw his weapon quickly.

He didn't know why, but he was already feeling uneasy.

Spooked.

"Not a thing. Kinda weird …. Spooky …." Santini gave an ominous shudder.

"Yeah. Tell me about it."

"What about the generators? No luck?"

"Someone did a good job of putting them out of commission …."

"Deliberately?" Santini gulped, silently recalling Leigh Roland's speech about the failure of the little things in life doing you in up here, and deducing from Hawke's guarded expression that that was what the younger man suspected.

"Ah, man …. What's going on here, String?"

"I don't know, but I sure have a bad feeling …."

"Sabotage, or is it that severe isolation thingymygig?" Santini quizzed, but Hawke's only response was to raise one shoulder and draw in a deep breath.

Stringfellow Hawke, followed by Santini, followed Leigh Roland as she took a right turn, and then walked down a short, narrow corridor until she emerged into a large kitchen, the beam of her flashlight bouncing off gleaming steel appliances and glass fronted store cupboards.

Roland went directly to a drawer above one of the cupboards under a length of counter and pulling it open carefully, produced a new box of matches with a flourish.

"Let there be light …." She grinned, tossing the hood of her Parka off her head and then threw the full box of matches to Dominic Santini as he came to a halt beside Stringfellow Hawke.

"Welcome to Whiteout Station," Leigh Roland sighed softly as Santini set down the lamp on the counter in front of him, struck a match and then held the resulting flame to the wick of the hurricane lantern, which immediately flooded the kitchen with soft yellow light, hissing comfortingly.

It was a large, professional looking kitchen, the kind of thing one might find behind any fashionable restaurant in any big city, spotlessly clean and clutter free, lined with cupboards and shelves and food preparation areas.

There was a little natural daylight streaming in through a small window, but it was muted and mostly obscured by the heavy skies out yonder, and a build up of new snow outside.

"Kitchen here, dining room and Rec room through there …."

Leigh Roland waved her hand vaguely in the direction of another set of heavy swing fire doors, orientating them to their new surroundings, suddenly feeling awkward and needing to say something to fill the oppressive emptiness that was closing in around her.

"Sleeping quarters are also down there, and more bathroom facilities," she smiled gently, indicating that she now understood the real reason why Dominic Santini had remained behind.

"They're chemical dunnies …. That's johns to you guys," she translated for them with a wry smile when she noted the perplexed look on Dominic Santini's face. Hawke, she knew, was well aware of what she was talking about, being more than familiar with her quaint Aussie turn of phrase and colloquialisms.

"The station is usually equipped with hot and cold running water, just in case you were wondering. The chemical toilets are for emergencies only, back ups for if the plumbing failed. Pipes are probably all frozen by now, so no flushing I'm afraid, guys, and no long hot showers either. We're most likely going to have to use the backup bottled water supplies we have in case of emergencies, for drinking and washing," she paused briefly to draw in a breath.

"And then we have the telecommunications room, sickbay and the Administration center back there. That about takes care of this block …."

She paused for a breath and all three of them were immediately aware that the only sound aside from their own breathing and rapid heart beats pounding in their ears, and the hissing of the hurricane lantern, was the wind screeching and howling outside, like some wild, ferocious animal.

"Better get started on setting up those heaters, and then maybe something warm to eat? No point going to check the radio, even if it is still in one piece, with no power, we can't use it," Leigh Roland pointed out sorrowfully now. "Then I'll show you guys where you can stow your gear and bunk down while you're here …."

Her voice was tight now, both men aware that she was fighting back tears and trying to disguise her fear and anxiety and her grief, the reality of the situation finally hitting home.

She had not asked the most obvious question, Hawke surmised, because she already knew the answer.

Everyone was gone.

_**Dead.**_

Including her precious husband.

_**Poor Leigh ….**_

"Whatever we do, we do it together. All of us. No wandering off on your own Leigh," Hawke warned in a low voice, and sighed deeply now. "We have to stick together, watch each other's backs, until we know what it is we're up against," he added looking from Roland to Santini and back again, solemnly. "We have to be able to rely on each other, Leigh. Understand?"

"Understood," Santini and Roland responded in unison.

"We'll need you to guide us around this place, Leigh, give us some background information on the people and what they were doing here, and to make sure we don't get lost. You already told us how easy it is to die up here, well, if we all stick together, look out for each other, take care of each other, that won't happen ..."

"Fine," she conceded, knowing that Hawke was right.

She also understood what it was he wasn't actually saying, suspecting that he was silently appealing to her once again, to put aside their differences and try to get along, and she knew that he was right about that too.

Maybe it was time to set aside her anger.

She still didn't quite understand _**why**_ she was angry.

It wasn't productive.

In fact, it was bordering on the childish.

And it wasn't helping anyone.

It wasn't even his fault …. She silently conceded.

But, he'd done his fair share of dishing it out too ….

And she still had no idea what was motivating _**his**_ very real anger toward _**her**_.

She gave him a look now that said 'I will if you will,' and was rewarded with an almost imperceptible nod of assent from Stringfellow Hawke in return.

"Good. I know it won't always be possible for the three of us to be together, but if that is the case, we should try to go in pairs, especially outside."

"Fine," she agreed again then a frown began to tug at her brow. "Does that include the sleeping arrangements, Mr Hawke?" Leigh Roland bristled now.

"I guess so …." Hawke sighed uncomfortably. "Makes sense, Leigh. Fewer rooms for us to try to heat. We don't know how long we might be here …. We can't heat the whole place, unless we get the generators going again, and frankly, that doesn't look remotely possible right now. So, we have to heat only the rooms where we need to spend most of our time, that way the gas heaters will last longer. Don't you agree?" He kept his tone reasonable and his expression neutral, trying not to let his temper flare at Leigh Roland's reaction.

"When you put it like that …. I guess we could set up three beds in the recreation room …." She conceded, knowing that he was right about needing to conserve their heat, trying to recall how many of the back up gas heaters she had seen stored in the shed out side and realising that no matter how many there were, there wouldn't be enough to heat the rooms where they needed to live, if they found themselves stranded here for any length of time.

Indeed, they would probably have to carefully ration everything, if they were going to see this thing through.

Hawke saw all of this flash across Leigh Roland's face, watched her silently reason it out to herself, and begin to accept that he was right, and he let out a soft sigh of relief that she had chosen not to challenge him.

"And while you're raising the issue of housekeeping, Leigh, we'll be happy to share the chores, won't we Dom?"

"Sure. Sure," Santini concurred swiftly, anything to keep the peace.

"Too bloody right, mate! Teamwork, that's how it works best up here," Leigh Roland allowed them a small, weak smile, but there was a quiver in her voice, and there was no mistaking the tears glistening in her amber eyes now.

"Good. C'mon Dom …."

Hawke laid a hand on Santini's shoulder now and threw him an appealing look, hoping that he would take the hint and give him a hand to lug the emergency supplies, thus allowing Leigh Roland a few minutes alone with her grief, and to get her emotions under control once more, just this once.

"Sure kid," Santini acknowledged with a sympathetic glance in Leigh Roland's direction then turned to follow Hawke.

"Don't run off, Leigh," Hawke reminded, half turning back to give her a pointed look.

"I already said I wouldn't, didn't I!" She snapped, then tutted, impatiently, annoyed with herself for rising to the bait. "I'll use the time to check the cupboards to see what we can rustle up for lunch …." She sniffed, then deliberately turned her back on Hawke, as he and Santini made their way back the way they had just come.

/a

"String …." Santini paused to regard his young friend with serious grey eyes.

"Dom?" Hawke let out a deep, audible breath, arching his eyebrow sardonically, knowing what was on the other man's mind.

Dominic Santini wanted some kind of reassurance from him that things were going to be alright between himself and Dr Roland, in view of the grand speech he had just given. Their situation was precarious enough without them fighting amongst themselves.

"You and the doc …."

"I tried, Dom …."

However, the look Santini shot back at him told Hawke that he was wondering just how much effort his young friend had actually put into it.

"Look, I asked her if we could bury the hatchet, and she asked me where I would like her to bury it! Oh, and something about me suiting a center parting, I do recall …." Hawke found himself wrangling with a smirk now as he saw Santini's eyes grow wider.

"Sweet," Santini quipped. "Got some chutzpah that one!"

"Mmmmm. I asked if we could call a truce, Dom …. But I guess it's down to her. Depends on how much longer she wants to go on punishing me," Hawke groaned softly.

"You're punishing each other," Santini pointed out, regardless of the fact that he knew he was risking getting his head chewed off. "But for what?"

"Leave it, Dom …."

"You ready to tell me about you and her?"

"No," Hawke's tone held a note of finality to it.

"Oh …."

"C'mon Dom, doesn't pay to stand still too long around here …."

"String …. What I can't figure is how the two of you have ever even met before," Santini mused.

"You wanna go fishing, Dom, go drill a hole in the ice and try to catch us something for dinner," Hawke suggested sarcastically and walked off ahead of Santini, angrily pushing open the swing fire doors and disappearing into the gloom beyond.

"Oh brother …. I can see this is gonna be a real dream vacation!"

/a

When Hawke and Santini returned to the kitchen, it was to find a now calm and composed Leigh Roland using the flashlight to illuminate the contents of an open cupboard, peering in and scanning the various multicoloured and multilingual labels on the cans and jars and packets that lined the shelves.

Dominic Santini quickly lit another hurricane lantern and carried it over to where Leigh Roland was standing, immediately throwing more and much welcome light on the rows of packets and canned goods.

"Hardly gourmet fair, I'm afraid," Leigh Roland quipped as Santini too leaned a little closer and peered at the labels on the cans, noting various varieties of canned soup, vegetables, and convenience foods like meatballs in gravy, spaghetti in tomato sauce, baked beans, various casserole sauces suitable for all kinds of meat, cans of tuna and Sardines and salmon, jars of fruit preserves, Bolognese sauces, chilli and curry sauces, canned meats and fruits, custard and evaporated milk along side packets of dried pasta, English tea, rice, flour, coffee creamer and various pulses and beans and condiments. There appeared to be something suitable to tempt all pallets and dietary tastes.

"It's nutritious and it will help to keep us warm and alive. So, Dominic, what do you fancy for lunch?"

"I'm not fussy, doc. I'll eat just about anything, me, but the young fella over there don't eat meat," Santini wrinkled his nose and pulled a face that said he could not understand why Hawke chose to exclude meat from his diet.

"Still?" Leigh Roland spoke absently, obviously without thinking, and then suddenly realised what she had said, as she saw Dominic Santini regarding her with undisguised curiosity and expectation.

"Me too."

However she did not elaborate, leaving the older man obviously disappointed.

"I think I can rustle something up that will suit everyone. How about canned tomato soup, some crackers …. No bread, I'm afraid …. We baked our own fresh every day, but without the power …."

Leigh Roland's expression suddenly changed as her eyes drifted away from the cupboard and around the vast kitchen, a look of sudden realisation and disappointment settling on her face as she waved her hand to the other side of the kitchen, drawing their attention to two large stainless steel doors, each the size of a man.

"Of course, we weren't all vegetarians here. There's meat and fish, frozen vegetables and fries, ice cream and stuff like that in the freezer, but again, with the power off, it's probably all ruined," She sighed now. "I know, kind of ironic when you think about the temperature out there …." Her gaze drifted briefly to the small window and the world beyond before returning to settle on Dominic Santini's disappointed face.

"Still, we wouldn't want to risk food poisoning. So, I guess it'll have to be the soup and crackers, and maybe some canned fruit and coffee to finish?"

"Sounds good," Santini forced a smile.

"How about we sort out the sleeping arrangements and stow our gear first?" Hawke suggested.

He was standing on the other side of the kitchen, leaning against the front control panel of one of the huge electric stoves, watching Santini and Roland.

"Don't know about the two of you, but I'd rather not be lugging heavy beds around on a full stomach."

"Sounds like a plan," Santini responded in agreeable tones.

"Not beds, just the mattresses. The bed frames are actually bolted to the walls and floors," Leigh Roland explained as she turned around and closed one cupboard door and then reached up to open another, but it only revealed more of the same kind of canned and dried packet goods.

"But I agree. We need to get some heat going in here and in there too, and then we can come back here and put our heads together over lunch?" Leigh Roland suggested, gently closing the last cupboard door, but then she was distracted, her attention drawn by something outside, her amber eyes fixed on the small square of Perspex that was the kitchen window, and the world beyond it.

"Leigh?" Hawke spoke softly, pushing off from where he was leaning against the stove and strode quickly across the small distance between them, coming to stand beside her, hands and forearms extended forward, taking his weight as he leaned against the double stainless steel sink and drainer positioned under the window, and peered out through the window too, but, he was unable to see anything except low cloud cover and thick, swirling white snowflakes falling in an unbroken cascade.

Buildings that had been clearly visible only a few minutes before were obliterated, and he could not tell where the sky ended and the ground began, and for just an instant was dizzy and disorientated, until he pulled his gaze back from the window and focused on his tanned hands, leaning against the sink.

"That's what I mean by whiteout, Hawke. You never ever want to be caught outside in a blizzard like that."

Stringfellow Hawke returned his gaze to the world outside the kitchen window, and knew immediately that she was right.

With the wind howling and the snow coming down in an endless unbroken torrent, like a fog, hardly able to see your hand in front of your face, it would be so easy to become disorientated, especially as the land was so flat and bleak and featureless to begin with, offering no points of reference.

It would be so easy to get lost, even if shelter and safety and civilisation were only a few feet away.

"So, how do you like life up here in the freezer, so far?"

"Let's just say I'm not planning on making it a permanent arrangement."

Hawke pulled his gaze away; feeling almost hypnotised by the constant swirling of the snow outside, and regarded Leigh Roland with a new found respect.

"How do you do it? How do you put up with it?"

"You get used to it, I guess, and of course, with everyone living on top of each other, life is never dull. The camaraderie, Dunkirk spirit, Greg used to call it, is something you have to experience to believe. Everyone in the same boat, facing the same challenges, everyone having to try to get on, rubbing along, supporting each other …. You learn to do a lot of compromising, and I guess you have to learn to deal with anything," she breathed heavily, her breath issuing forth in a plume of vapor, and allowed her eyes to settle on his handsome features at last.

"We all chose to live here," she reminded him with a gentle smile. "And those of us who were lucky enough to be selected to live and work here, were very closely vetted to make sure that we could endure it, physically and mentally," she explained.

"If there was even the slightest doubt, you didn't get through the selection process, and once you were here, everyone was closely monitored, and it was a requirement that everyone saw Dr Murray, Sheila Murray, the psychiatrist, at least twice a month, to make sure that the confinement and isolation weren't having a detrimental effect. If she felt you were under stress, or life was becoming claustrophobic or oppressive, she did not hesitate to send you home. Sometimes it was just for a couple of week's break, under the guise of sourcing equipment and supplies, but if she thought you couldn't cope, you were outta here, no fuss, no muss …."

Leigh Roland's gaze now drifted back to the window.

"It is beautiful though …. Hypnotic," she turned to regard Hawke and found him nodding gently in agreement. "We all knew that we were the privileged few. How many other human beings have had a chance like this? How many more will get the same chance in the future? Whatever we learn about this environment can only benefit future generations, Hawke."

And now it was easy to hear the passion for her work in Leigh Roland's voice, leaving Stringfellow Hawke with no doubt that no matter what else had been going on here at Whiteout Station, Leigh Roland's part in it had been as she had said, innocent research into the effects of prolonged exposure to extremes of weather on the human mind and body.

"I was lucky. I had Greg …."

Her voice trailed away, and she grew solemn, briefly, then drawing in a deep breath, she dragged her gaze away from the blizzard beyond the window, and forced herself not to think about her husband's fate, as she let the breath out as a deep sigh.

"Ok, let's make a start, gentlemen. We need to get this place warmed up a little if we are going to think clearly."

"Lead on McDuff …." Stringfellow Hawke invited, silently acknowledging the wisdom in her words.

"Great. The sooner we get done, the sooner we eat. I'm starved!" Santini declared with a huge grin on his face.

"You're always starved, Dom …." Hawke mumbled softly under his breath, following Leigh Roland across the kitchen to collect one of the crates as she picked up the other hurricane lantern, even though she had a flashlight, and moved toward the set of red swing fire doors that led to the next module and the recreation area cum dining hall.

Following their lead, Dominic Santini retrieved the other lantern and a flashlight and followed Hawke and Roland through the fire doors.

"Leigh, how long do you think the power has been off?" Hawke asked as he negotiated his way through the swing doors with the bulky crate, noting the ice crystals, like tiny grains of rice, on the walls and ceiling, shimmering in the beam of light from her flashlight.

"Hard to say. It wouldn't take long for the temperature to drop once the heating had gone off," Hawke watched her warm breath streaming from her lips and nose into the frigid air, as she held the door open for him.

"But if everyone was still here … still ok, then someone would have gone to check on the generators, tried to get them working, and if that had failed, then they would have done what we have just done, gone to the sheds for the back up lights and heaters …."

Her voice trailed away then and Stringfellow Hawke watched the play of emotions racing across her face as she thought about what she had just said, and their implication, and came to the only possible conclusion to account for their findings so far.

"They're dead, aren't they …." She spoke in a small sad voice after dragging in a deep breath.

A statement, not a question, Hawke noted.

"We don't know that for sure, Leigh," Hawke pointed out gently, trying to reassure her, but his voice lacked any genuine sincerity, for he also suspected that everyone at Whiteout Station was dead. "Let's make ourselves comfortable first, and then we can try to find out where everyone went, and what happened here."

"Ok."

However, now that she had inadvertently opened up that can of worms, both of their minds were turning to the still smoking and smouldering building just across the compound, and their very real fears that some accident had trapped the majority of the scientists at their work, and they had all perished in the flames.

"What's the hold up, kids?" Santini quipped from behind Hawke, evidently not having overheard their conversation. "I'm freezing my butt off here!"

/a

Once they had the crate open and the heater set up and running, Hawke took a moment to glance around the room. It was spacious, furnished with a selection of chairs and tables and a pool table and reminded Hawke of many a mess hall or bar that both he and Santini had been inside over the years, but without the obvious signs of alcohol.

The three of them set about clearing a space in the center of the room, large enough to accommodate three thick mattresses side by side, and then after setting up adequate lighting, the room already looking and feeling much cosier than before they had started, Hawke and Santini followed Leigh Roland into the next module and the sleeping quarters.

"Welcome to Broadway …." She indicated to the long, narrow corridor they now found themselves in, which ran down the center of the module, with the scientists' private sleeping quarters on either side.

"The telecommunications room is at the far end of this corridor, I know what I said about the power, but we should still check that out later. We might be able to jerry rig something with the radio system on your helicopter …. "

She pondered out loud as she moved to a door just a few feet from where Hawke was standing and carefully turned the knob, then pushed the door open.

"You can take the mattresses from in here," she gave the door another gentle push to reveal a twin room, basically furnished, but made more homely by various personal belongings on the night stands and posters and pictures tacked to the walls.

Hawke raised his flashlight and illuminated the chrome plaque screwed into the center of the door, announcing that the room belonged to Dr Sven Sorenson and Jean-Claude Dubois.

"While you guys do that, I'd like to go and get some things from our room …. Mine and Greg's …."

Leigh Roland stopped abruptly when she noticed the scowling expression on Stringfellow Hawke's face.

"Oh, c'mon, Hawke, I know what you said about sticking together, but it's just down the corridor," she sighed deeply in frustration. "I only want some clean, warm clothes, and you'd be wise to have a hunt around and see what you can find to fit each of you, because I can assure you that whatever you've got in those overnight bags, it won't be nearly enough insulation to protect you, not with the power off," she advised coolly.

"If you remember, _**Mister Hawke**_, you made me swap my perfectly suitable cold weather gear for this wholly inadequate and draughty flight suit," her tone was sarcastic now and this drew another scowl from Hawke as he realised that his nasty little joke had backfired on him.

"I can't see any harm in it, String …." Santini reasoned, his breath escaping as a plume of vapor in the frigid air. "It is kinda chilly …." He offered Hawke a wry half smile as he understated the obvious.

"Where?" Hawke demanded through clenched teeth.

"Two doors down on the left," Leigh Roland glared back at Hawke.

"Ok," he let out a deep sigh, his own breath a plume of water vapor now. "But make it snappy. You've got as long as it takes for us to carry these two mattresses back there to the recreation room and then come back for a third."

"Gee, thanks …."Leigh Roland turned on her heel and stormed off down the dark corridor, the echo of her angry footsteps bouncing off the steel walls as she went, and out of the corner of his eye, Stringfellow Hawke noticed Dominic Santini opening his mouth, no doubt about to make some sage observation, or offer some scathing remark about his manners.

"Dom …." Hawke snarled out of the side of his mouth, effectively halting Santini in his tracks.

"Yeah, String?"

"Save it."

"Sure thing, String …." Santini sighed, knowing that he would be wasting his breath, as he rolled his eyes heavenward.

/a\

Both men had just managed to negotiate their way back through two sets of heavy swing fire doors, to the recreation/dining area with the second, bulky and cumbersome mattress and lay it down on the floor in the center of the room next to the first, when a woman's high pitched, blood curdling scream suddenly split the eerie silence, and sent both men tearing back toward the accommodation module.

Younger, lighter on his feet and faster, Hawke was the first to arrive at the top end of the corridor Leigh Roland had called Broadway, and he found the doctor slumped in the doorway of one of the bedrooms, the door slightly open.

She had her back to him, shoulders shaking violently, leaning heavily against the door frame, sobbing brokenly, gasping for breath, her face buried in her forearms as they supported her weight against the door frame.

Hawke immediately noting the change of clothes, out of the flight suit, which was in a crumpled heap on the floor at her feet, and into faded denim jeans, over which she wore a thick cream colored cable knit sweater, but there was a frown tugging down his brow as he rushed along the corridor toward her, confused, as he realised that where she was standing was not the room that she had indicated belonged to herself and her husband. That room was further down and on the opposite side of the corridor.

Hawke came to a halt beside her and peered into the darkness of the room beyond, then bent down to pick up the flashlight that Leigh Roland had dropped along with the flight suit, and flicking it on, aimed the beam inside.

Hawke was immediately confronted with the sight of a man's body, fully dressed, even down to the heavy black snow boots on his feet, lying on the bed, on top of the sheets and blankets, head on the pillow, blank, dead eyes staring unseeingly up at the corrugated arched steel ceiling, face blue and totally lifeless, body apparently rigid.

It was the body of a white male, age around forty, approximately six feet tall and slender, with brown hair and blue eyes, and as he illuminated the body, from behind him, Leigh Roland began to sob more violently, and Hawke turned slightly to find her staring, white faced and open mouthed, unable to take her eyes off the dead man.

Hawke immediately snatched the flashlight beam away from the corpse and reached out to drag the distraught young woman into his arms, instinctively turning her face away from the gruesome sight.

"Leigh …." Hawke whispered softly into her hair as she clung to him and a breathless and anxious Dominic Santini rushed up the corridor toward them now, peering into the room at the grisly sight and letting out a startled gasp.

"Oh il mio dio …. Oh my God …."

"Leigh …. Is it …."

"Greg?" She spluttered between sobs, burying her face deeper into his shoulder and clinging to him, until at last she was able to speak again.

"No …. No …." She sobbed bitterly. "It's Shane. Shane Preston …." She finally choked out. "My research partner …. Ohmygod, ohmygod …." She sobbed convulsively, clinging on even more tightly to Stringfellow Hawke.

"I'm sorry …." Hawke spoke in a low, soft voice, his hand coming up to gently cup the back of her head, his fingers lightly stroking her now very short, untidy and spiky blonde hair in a comforting rhythm, and waited patiently in silence for her violent, heart rending sobs to subside.

"Oh God …. Oh God …. What the hell is going on here!" Leigh Roland demanded hysterically of no-one in particular as she pulled herself roughly out of Hawke's embrace at last and then leaned heavily against the door frame, eyes automatically drawn to the man lying so silent and still on the bed, staring in morbid fascination at the corpse of her friend and fellow countryman.

Stringfellow Hawke and Dominic Santini shared concerned glances as they waited for Leigh Roland to calm down a little, noting her sickly pallor and her rapid and ragged breathing, and then, keeping his voice low, his tone gentle, Stringfellow Hawke moved to Leigh Roland and took both of her hands gently in his own.

"Leigh, I'm sorry to have to ask, but can you tell us how he died?"

Drawing in a deep, ragged breath, Leigh Roland quickly pulled one of her hands free from Hawke's grasp and swatted at the tears rolling ceaselessly down her pale cheeks and fixed desolate amber eyes on Hawke's sympathetic face.

"I'm sorry, doctor …." Hawke used her professional title on purpose now, gently reminding her that no matter how distressing it was, personal friend or no, she had a job to do, and they needed answers.

"We do need to know," Hawke held her gaze, willing her to forgive him his apparent insensitivity at this time, willing her to see that he was genuinely sorry to have to press her so soon after the shock she had just received, and begging for forgiveness, or at least a little understanding from her.

"There might be some vital clue on the body ….." he pointed out gently, squeezing her hand with is own. "Some thing that might help us to find out exactly what is going on here."

Leigh Roland drew in another deep, shaky breath, then letting it out as a deep sigh, nodded gently in understanding, if anything, grateful that he had reminded her that she needed to approach this in a detached and professional manner.

"I really am sorry to have to ask you, Leigh …."

"I know. It's alright, Hawke. It's part of my job …."

She pulled her other hand free of Hawke's grasp and pushed off from the door frame and moved past Hawke to enter the room, willing herself to stay calm and professional and aloof, despite the fact that it was her dear friend lying there dead on the bed.

"I need some more light …." She called out, ignoring the tears that continued to roll down her cheeks, as she moved slowly and cautiously closer to the narrow single bed, noting the peaceful expression on Shane Preston's dear and familiar face, recalling the many times over the few months that she had known him, when that handsome face had worn the most endearing of grins or smiles, and again felt fresh tears sting in her eyes.

Hawke and Santini aimed the beams of their flashlights into the room, and more specifically, directly on to the body of the dead man on the bed, and fixing a mask of cold professionalism and detachment onto her face, Leigh Roland swatted away her tears, drew in a deep, cleansing breath, focused her mind on the task ahead and began her examination of the body, beginning firstly by carefully looking it over. Then, a little reluctantly and with obviously shaking fingers, touching it, gently probing and prodding, then finally turning it toward her and away from her, gently, asking for more light as she peered more closely, looking for some vital clue, before reaching up to run her hand over her friend Shane Preston's face and eyes, closing the lids and saying a silent prayer for his soul.

Finally, she stepped away from the bed and forced her legs to carry her back out to the corridor where Santini and Hawke had silently watched the proceedings and now awaited her verdict.

"I can't see anything obvious," Leigh Roland sighed deeply as she came to a stop in the door way. "It looks like a natural death to me …."

"Natural death?" Santini frowned. "A young fella like that?"

"There are no obvious signs of violence, but without doing an autopsy, I can't say for sure what killed him," Leigh Roland explained in a ragged voice, tears welling up in her eyes once more.

"Do you know how long he has been dead?" Hawke asked solemnly and Leigh Roland shook her head quickly.

"I can't tell. The body could still be in rigor, but it's more likely that it's just frozen …."

"Was he sick, Leigh? Before all of this started? You must know something of his prior medical history …." Hawke prompted.

"He was as healthy as a horse," she raised sorrowful eyes to Hawke now. "We all were. We all had to be …."

"Could you do an autopsy?" Hawke pressed solemnly, aware that she was still very shocked and distressed, and that it was probably the most insensitive and callous thing he could ask of her, to perform such a procedure on someone who had been a close friend, but also that they still needed answers. It might be important.

"Of course I can! " Leigh Roland responded sharply, then lowered her head and dragged in a ragged breath. "I'm qualified to perform the procedure, if that is what you are asking, and yes, sickbay has the facilities for me to do a pretty basic post mortem examination," she explained a little more calmly, raising her head once more and fixing anguished amber eyes on Stringfellow Hawke. "But, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not do it right now."

"Ok," Hawke agreed swiftly, realising that she needed time to regain her composure and equilibrium, and that it would probably take her some time to prepare the sickbay in readiness for the procedure.

Just for a moment, Leigh Roland showed a flash of surprise at his not pushing her into doing the procedure straight away, and then she seemed to relax her rigid stance, just a little and threw him a small, but genuine smile of appreciation for his sensitivity and understanding.

"We'd better move the body to sickbay. Would one of you …." Her voice trailed away as she turned back to look at the dead man on the bed.

"We'll take him between us, if you show us the way," Hawke offered gently and Dominic Santini nodded in silent agreement.

"Thank you."


	6. Chapter 6

**_Chapter Five_**

**_Whiteout Station - The Arctic Circle._**

**_Somewhere on the Polar Ice Cap, Northern Alaska._**

**_Day Twelve – Wednesday, February 22nd, 1984._**

**_Approximately Noon, Local Time._**

"Ok, Leigh, so how about you tell us a little more about the people you lived and worked with here at Whiteout …." Stringfellow Hawke asked in a deliberately gentle voice, watching as Leigh Roland pushed the tomato soup around her dish with her spoon for the umpteenth time without actually raising it to her lips and taking a sip.

He wasn't doing so well with the food himself, but, he reasoned silently, he wasn't the one who looked as though they were about to keel over any second.

Leigh Roland looked very unwell, but, again, he reasoned, it was only to be expected after what she had inadvertently walked in on.

Her face was bloodless, cheeks sunken, brow deeply furrowed in a perpetual frown, wide eyes, flat, and edged with fine dark lines, but more noticeably, she was shaking, hands, shoulders, fingers. She couldn't seem to keep still, wriggling and squirming, almost non stop. A nervous tick, Hawke found himself supposing, as he too pushed his soup around his bowl without much enthusiasm, lowering his eyes when she caught him scowling at her.

He hoped that it was that she was just feeling the cold, although the portable heater was doing a fine job of warming the room and the hurricane lanterns added to the effect with a cosy yellow glow. However, in truth, Hawke suspected that she was probably still in shock.

And in spite of himself, Hawke was genuinely concerned for her.

She looked so frail, so fragile, so completely overwhelmed and devastated by what she had discovered here at Whiteout Station, although she was desperately trying to hide it and put on a brave face, and Stringfellow Hawke realised that whilst she might have had some concerns about what had happened to her friends, might have feared some terrible disaster, this was beyond even her wildest imaginings.

Two of her friends dead, the place she called home cold and dark and seemingly abandoned, one half of it a smouldering ruin ...

The people she cared for, her husband included, vanished into thin air.

After carefully transporting Shane Preston's body to the sickbay, and then leaving Leigh Roland alone with her silent grief for a few moments, during which time Hawke had gone back to the recreation room and retrieved the solid white square plastic box with the thick red stripe across it, containing, he suspected, medical supplies for the sickbay, Stringfellow Hawke had walked slowly up to her, deposited the box on a counter and then slid his arm gently around Leigh Roland's shoulders, supporting her as he encouraged her and guided her away, quietly suggesting as he did so that they return to the recreation area to finish off setting up their little camp.

He had been relieved when she had not tried to push him away, indeed, she had leaned heavily against him as they had walked the short distance back to the recreation area, obviously grateful for his support and sensitivity, and then she had drawn in a deep cleansing breath, squared back her shoulders and straightened up to her full height, her chin rising slightly in defiance, and with a regretful smile had finally withdrawn from his supporting arm.

Stringfellow Hawke and Dominic Santini had then followed Leigh Roland back into the accommodation block, to another twin room whose door plaque indicated it had belonged to Dr Eunice Anderson and Dr Dorothy O'Brien, and carried the last mattress back to the recreation area, positioning it beside the others, while Leigh Roland had dug out bedding from the main linen supplies cupboard, providing thick, thermal sleeping bags and blankets for each of them and a couple of fat pillows each too.

Then, despite the fact that none of them were feeling particularly hungry any longer, with perhaps the exception of Dominic Santini, who although he said he wasn't, couldn't hide the fact that his stomach was growling and rumbling ominously, Hawke had suggested that they return to the kitchen.

Leigh Roland had busied herself with providing the means to make their meal, while Hawke had put together the small camping stove and gas bottle, and then lit it, and Dominic Santini had helped with laying out cutlery and condiments and opening various cans and tidying away the debris.

When the soup had heated Leigh had loaded bowls of the steaming soup onto a large intricately carved dark wooden tray, along with everything else, and Hawke had carried it back through to the recreation cum dining hall area, where they had all three sat down at one of the large marble effect laminated tables, Hawke and Santini side by side on one side of the wide table, Leigh Roland opposite Hawke on the other.

Leigh Roland's hand stilled now and she raised big, luminous amber eyes that were full of distrust and suspicion and fixed them on Stringfellow Hawke's handsome countenance, trying to read his expression and gain some hint as to his true motives for asking the question.

She wished that he would stop staring at her for a start. It was most disconcerting, especially as she didn't know what was really going on behind those beautiful, hooded blue eyes.

She sensed that he was being very careful and measured, both in his tone of voice, and with what he actually said, so as not to raise her hackles and cause her to be irritated, but she could not help feeling that he had some very dark suspicions about what exactly the scientific community here were working on, and it rankled.

_**What the hell did he think? **_

_**They were all a bunch of mad scientists running around trying to brew up some kind of new chemical or biological weapon!**_

_**How could he even begin to believe that she would be involved with something like that!**_

_**Because, **_a sad little voice in the back of her head told her wearily_**, he doesn't really know you. **_

_**He never did.**_

_**And you don't know him either.**_

_**You have no idea what kind of man he is, what his real purpose for being here could be ….**_

_**He's not the boy you knew and loved, and you're not that naïve girl anymore either.**_

For his part, Stringfellow Hawke felt that he needed a little more background information about Whiteout Station and the people who had populated it, so that he could try to work out what might have happened here.

He still could not shake the uneasy feeling that something more was going on here than met the eye, and he felt that by learning a little more about the people and their respective research programs, things might become a little clearer.

He could not get away from the feeling that something or someone here had drawn the unhealthy interest and attention of some one with less than honourable intentions.

But, as yet, Hawke didn't know whom or what or why.

"What exactly do you know?" Leigh Roland asked in a low, deep voice, pinning Hawke with what could only be described as an evil look in her eyes now.

"Nothing much," Hawke huffed, resting his own spoon back in the bowl of untouched soup before him, while beside him, Dominic Santini continued to alternately shovel steaming spoonfuls of rich tomato soup and dry crackers into his mouth, while also eyeing the interaction between his young friend and the lady doctor with interest.

"I read a little something about it in the papers when the project was first announced. I recall there mention of it being a multinational civilian concern, financed by governments and academic institutions, and that the objective was to learn as much about the Arctic as they could. About climate, wildlife, flora and fauna, and natural resources, that sort of thing …." Hawke paused and Leigh Roland nodded silently, prompting him to continue.

"When he gave us this mission, Archangel …."

"Archangel?" Leigh Roland frowned, recalling that she had heard Hawke use that name several times during the flight up here, but she had no idea to whom he was referring.

"Michael Coldsmith Briggs III, code name, Archangel," Hawke elaborated in an impatient drawl. "And, as I was saying, Archangel didn't tell us anything specific, only that as this place is only spitting distance from Soviet territory, he couldn't rule out the possibility that the guys up here had come across something that the Russians might find valuable to them."

"Well, we all knew the Russians would be interested," Leigh conceded with a soft sigh now, her expression relaxing, just a little. "And we had our suspicions that they were watching us …."

"Oh?" This piqued Hawke's curiosity now.

"Yeah, monitoring radio transmissions, that sort of thing. We would some times get odd interference or feed back from the radio, which we suspected might be our Red friends eavesdropping, and someone laughingly suggested that they might have a ship, masquerading as a fishing boat, or maybe even a sub, out there somewhere …."

She gave a small half shrug and let out a deep sigh.

"But there was never anything obvious. Everyone speculated that they would probably wait for us to do all the hard work, and then maybe try something …. But …."

"But?"

"Well, we were a long way from finding anything concrete to report," she told him with an earnest expression now.

"Yes, Greg did mention that the seismographic and geographical reports were favourable for oil and gas, but they were only drilling test core samples, not actually drilling test wells or anything fancy like that. It was all pretty basic preliminary stuff. The rest would come much later and would be down to the oil and gas companies to finance and operate, if it turns out that there is enough of each for them to invest a fortune in to get at it. Everything else being done here was pure research."

"Go on," Hawke prompted, genuinely interested, wanting to draw her out, firstly to take her mind off her gruesome discovery in the sleeping quarters, and the possible implications for her husband and friends, and secondly to find out what she had made of the people here and the work they were doing.

She was a smart woman, and she had good instincts about people and a healthy distrust too, if the look she was aiming at him now was any indication.

"You want me to spell it out for you?"

"Sure," Hawke let out a heavy breath in frustration. "But eat a little soup first …."

"Not hungry," she pulled a sour face and pushed the bowl of untouched soup away from her, and Hawke had to admit that she did indeed still have a sickly look about her. Face still very pale, features pinched as though she were fighting off nausea, eyes red rimmed and pupils dilated.

She looked tired too, and he could not help wondering if she was still suffering the effects of the head cold she allegedly had, although he didn't recall her doing much in the way of coughing or sneezing, now that he actually stopped and thought about it.

She was understandably anxious and upset about the situation here and shocked by what they had already discovered, and, she was still obviously at odds with her feelings at seeing him again after all these years, still a little cold and standoffish, easily riled, eyes full of anger and distrust, even though she was now at least trying to make an effort to be civil to him.

All of that, on top of her father's recent death, was bound to make her feel a little under the weather, he reasoned silently.

"And don't tell me what to do. You haven't touched your soup either," she pointed out flatly.

"Ok," Hawke reached out for his spoon, loaded it with the rich, creamy tomato soup and then directed it to his mouth and swallowed it down.

It wasn't bad, even for canned soup.

"It's quite good," he conceded, and the look he gave her encouraged her to take a sip too, but she shook her head gently and swallowed down hard, giving Hawke reason to believe that she was indeed feeling nauseous.

_**Hey, take it easy, remember, she did just find one of her friends dead!**_

_**Maybe she has the right to feel a little queasy right now.**_

_**Back off a little and quit goading her. **_

_**You need her to stay calm if she is going to co-operate and give you the information you need.**_

"I'll have something later," she placated in response to his look, and noted the concern in his lovely blue eyes now, and something more.

A question.

No, more like a speculation.

_**Was she really sick? **_

_**Or simply not very good at hiding something that she didn't want him to know?**_

_**Something about Whiteout and the people who lived here?**_

_**Something not quite on the level ….**_

_**Damn him!**_

_**She had been right when she had accused him of having a nasty mind!**_

_**Lord, when did he get to be so cold and calculating and so damned cynical?**_

"What is it you _**really**_ want to know, Hawke?" Leigh Roland demanded in a hard, cold, voice now and saw the spark of anger flare in Hawke's eyes in response.

"Anything that might help us to get to the bottom of what has happened here," he told her on a deep, shoulder raising sigh, obviously trying to keep his temper and exercise a little patience. "I know you want to know just as badly as we do."

"Of course I bloody well do!" She erupted, tears instantly springing to her eyes, and she quickly dropped her head, wrestling with her emotions.

"I'm sorry, Leigh. I don't want to upset you …." And now Hawke really meant it.

"I know," she conceded in a soft voice now, with another deep sigh, knuckling away a tear with a noticeably trembling right hand, as she lifted her head once more and offered Hawke a small, sad smile. "I just can't stop thinking …."

"I know," Hawke reached out across the table and laid his hand down gently on top of the outstretched fingers of her left hand, his finger tips lightly grazing the rings nestling on the third finger.

It was meant to be a reassuring gesture, to show his understanding of her fragile emotional state right now, but Hawke suddenly found that he had to force himself not to snatch his hand away as though it had been burned, shocked by the bitterness and disappointment and genuine rage coursing through him, as the thought suddenly flashed through his mind, that _**he**_ could have been the one to put a ring on her finger, if things had worked out as he had anticipated thirteen years ago.

_**But they didn't, so move on. **_

_**She fell in love with someone else and didn't give you a second thought, buddy. **_

_**So, like I said, you had a lucky escape!**_

"I'm sorry …." Hawke mumbled now, trying to keep the anger out of his voice, dragging his gaze away from Leigh Roland's angry and distressed face, thrusting his chin up as he drew in a deep breath.

"If it helps, honey, why don't you tell us about him? Your husband," Dominic Santini interjected then, again sensing the odd undercurrent passing between them, regarding Hawke and Dr Roland curiously as he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, his soup bowl now empty.

There was obviously something going on between them that neither was willing to address, but it was making them both tense and volatile, Santini found him self thinking sourly.

_**Why didn't they just spit it out and deal with it?**_

_**All this pussy footing around was making them all antsy and irritable, and they didn't need the added tension and strain right now.**_

_**Kids!**_

Santini could see that his young friend Hawke was making an effort to be tolerant and not give in to his temper, and, Santini had to give him his due, Hawke was trying to make good on his promise, although she wasn't making it easy for him.

Santini had thought that Leigh Roland was also making some kind of effort, if only for a few minutes, back there, shocked and bewildered and needing Hawke's support, but now it seemed that they were back to square one, silently squaring off, defiant and angry, bitter, oversensitive, and tetchy, stubbornly refusing to be the first one to broach the subject.

Dominic Santini had no idea what it was that had once passed between these two young people, but it was obvious that they did indeed have some kind of history, and he had his suspicions that it had left both of them badly hurt and scarred.

To his way of thinking, and recalling what he had seen in Leigh Roland's eyes earlier, the anger, hatred, hunger and love, it had to have something to do with romance.

Somehow, somewhere, these two had met, fallen in love, and then something had happened, something had come between them and it had turned out badly.

And, if what he had seen so far was any indication, neither one of them had ever really faced up to it.

Certainly Hawke had never made any mention of it to him, and that in its self indicated to Dominic Santini that it must have been something really serious.

Something that had affected the young man very deeply.

When faced with the most painful issues in his life, his young friend tended to climb inside himself and shut himself off, draw a veil between himself and the world, preferring to suffer in silence until such a time as he felt able to reveal his worries and fears and heartaches to his friend Dominic Santini.

Sometimes, these things went too deep, were too painful, that the young man could not bear to face them at all, and so chose to ignore them completely.

Was that what had happened in this case?

Had his young friend found a fierce passion with this young woman, only to end up getting burned?

He couldn't blame the young man.

She was a real looker, and yes, she certainly had fire too, in her blood as well as in her eyes.

More than enough fire to keep his young friend on his toes and remind him that he was indeed very much alive.

"Greg. Dr Gregory Chandler," the very thought of him brought a soft smile to Leigh Roland's lips now, and Hawke found himself having to fight back a pang of jealousy, for it was easy for him to see that she had loved the other man very much.

"He's English. Part of the British contingency. He's a geologist. He and his partners, Dr Ravi Patel, Stephen Norton and Barry Payne were drilling core samples looking for rock strata that would indicate the possibility of there being oil and gas under the ice."

Leigh Roland explained, quickly warming to her subject, but Hawke was quick to note her use of the present tense, and surmised that she was still obviously clinging to a slim hope that Greg Chandler might still be alive.

"Greg had years of experience working for BP. That's British Petroleum, the big British government owned Oil Company. He helped them discover new oil fields in the North Sea, but on this project he and Ravi were working purely on analysing the rock and ice core samples and giving their opinions if there might be reserves down there, and where to look for them. It was Stephen and Barry who were here representing the British Government's interests, and were ultimately responsible for submitting the data to them and advising if investment in further research was viable or not."

"So what did he do before coming to Whiteout?" Hawke prompted gently, before taking another sip of his soup.

"He was lecturing, at UCLA. Professor of Geology. That's where we met, two years ago."

"You were at UCLA?" Hawke asked with more than a hint of surprise, but not at the discovery that she had been so close all this time, but that she and the geologist had only met two years before.

_**So she didn't throw you over in favour of him, buddy, so what?**_

_**If it wasn't him, then it must have been some other unfortunate GI, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time!**_

"Yes. I was lecturing there too. Toxicology, that's the study of toxins and poisons and their antidotes, and Epidemiology, which is the identification of new strains of virus or bacteria and the causes and prevention of epidemics," she explained patiently.

"I was offered that job because before that I was in Georgia, at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, studying contagious micro organisms and epidemiology, and before that I had a junior post with the World Health Organisation in Geneva for a while."

"You certainly got around …." Santini grinned.

He had heard that Australians were free spirits and roamed the world much like gypsies. A lot of them ended up in California, often following the surf, others made for England, trying to trace their roots back to the motherland that had transported their convict descendents to the penal colonies in bygone days, or the economic migrants who had moved to Australia to find their fortune and start new lives.

"Have passport, will travel …." Leigh Roland quipped, but there was no humour in her voice, just a cold emptiness and a sadness in her eyes that tugged at Santini's heart.

"Wanderlust, huh?"

"I guess you might call it that, Dominic," Leigh Roland lowered her gaze now, growing coy and reserved, and again Hawke could not help sensing that there was something more that she wasn't saying.

"How long were you married, honey?" Dominic Santini asked in a soft voice and winced when he saw the sharp look Hawke was now aiming in his direction, a warning from the younger man that he was being insensitive again, Santini suspected, and knew that String was right, but it was too late, he couldn't take the question back.

"As far as I know, Mr Santini, we still are married …." Leigh Roland tried to make a joke, but it fell flat, and so she added flatly; "Six months …."

Leigh Roland's voice trailed away when she noted Hawke's surprised reaction.

"Actually, nearer seven months," she amended quickly. "We got married just before we came here, to Whiteout. Just before we learned that we had both secured places on our respective projects. He kind of swept me off my feet. Bloody Pom idiot, promised me the world …. Or at least the top of it," Leigh Roland smiled weakly now. "After all, how many people get to have a honeymoon in a place like this?"

"Some honeymoon, kid, living shoulder to shoulder with twenty odd other people," Santini chuckled.

"So, these people you and your husband worked with …." Hawke interjected, throwing Santini another evil scowl in the process. "You knew them well? Liked them?" He prompted now, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had suddenly taken.

_**Seven months? **_

_**Married only seven months …. **_

_**The way she looked when she spoke about him, the way she looked when she feared that something dreadful had happened to him, you'd think they'd been together for years ….**_

_**No wonder she was so upset.**_

_**The honeymoon was barely over ….**_

"Yes," Leigh Roland responded in irritation now, frowning at the confused and perplexed look on Hawke's face.

_**What on earth was that all about?**_

_**Was he mad with her because she had found someone else to love after all these years?**_

_**Was he jealous?**_

_**Well, damn him!**_

_**She had every right to be happy, and God knows she had waited long enough to find the right recipient for her love, and the courage to actually allow herself to love again.**_

_**He had no idea of what she had been through all these years, the pain and the loneliness …. **_

_**No idea at all, and he had absolutely no right to judge her.**_

_**No right at all.**_

_**Arrogant sonofa ….**_

"So tell us about the others. The man we found back there. Your friend …."

"Shane, Dr Shane Preston. Another Aussie. Nice bloke. Down to earth, and as honest as the day is long. He was a microbiologist. He was supposed to bring his own research assistant, but she found out that she was pregnant the week before we were all due to arrive here, and her husband didn't like the idea of her being shut away up here. He hadn't been all that keen on the idea of her coming here in the first place, so it was just the excuse he needed to put a stop to it," she paused briefly to draw in a breath.

"When Shane found out that I was a medical doctor, but had a back ground in micro biology too, he asked me to give him a hand with his project. We got along like a house on fire. I thought of him as a big brother …." Her voice suddenly caught in her throat and she paused, briefly, to regain her composure.

"Shane was interested in the micro organisms in the water and rocks and ice, and how they survived in the extreme cold. He would get his own samples most of the time, but sometimes he would cadge a rock core sample from Greg to see what, if anything, was living further down."

"And your research?" Hawke prompted softly.

"The human body's ability to tolerate extremes of climate and the human minds' reaction to isolation in this kind of environment," she reeled off in her best teacher addressing the class tone of voice.

"I got a little help from Sheila Murray on that score. She was the resident Psychiatrist and Psychologist. We both got most of our funding from NASA. They are interested because of their future extended human space flight programs. They want to go to Mars some day, and conditions up here are about as close to what they think the Martian surface is like, at least in the respect of temperature, and of course, the isolation from the rest of mankind …."

"I also got some funding from UCLA, managed to twist their arm for a small contribution and use of their facilities whenever I was in town in exchange for arranging for NASA to seriously consider their involvement in any future space research programs. My own project wouldn't have filled all my time here, nor would the duties of CMO, Chief Medical Officer, so I was happy to assist Shane," she explained, then paused to draw in a soft breath.

"We had quite a lot in common, and pretty soon we became good friends."

The look Hawke aimed in her direction told her that he was wondering what her husband had made of her friendship with the Australian microbiologist, but although she deliberately ignored it, and let out a deep sigh before continuing, she could not stop her mind from racing.

_**What the hell is it with him?**_

_**Why is he so quick to judge, so willing to believe that I was running around with anything and everything in pants!**_

_**First Sven. **_

_**Now Shane?**_

_**What does he think I am?**_

_**A floozy with the morals of an alley cat?**_

_**Where is he getting this from? **_

_**He must surely know that I'm not that kind of girl?**_

_**I never was ….**_

_**How could he possibly have forgotten that he was the first ….**_

_**Why was he being so hateful?**_

_**So nasty?**_

_**Didn't he know how much she had loved him?**_

_**Didn't he know what he had meant to her?**_

_**Did he really think that she would want anyone else after him?**_

_**Dammit, it had taken her almost thirteen years to get over him!**_

She found herself screaming silently, having to suppress the desire to reach out across the table and shake some sense into the man.

_**Hush now, he doesn't know that, he doesn't know any of it …. He's just lashing out because he's hurt and confused and needs someone to blame ….**_

She told herself sternly, feeling her heart constrict in her chest, because she knew that even if she told him, spelled it out for him, there would be no relief, for either of them, only more heartache and disappointment.

_**It was all in the past.**_

_**Let bygones be bygones.**_

But, it seemed that Hawke was not willing to do that, and she was not willing to inflict even more pain upon him, and so they faced an impasse.

_**Stalemate.**_

_**Unable to face the past, but unable to move on from it either.**_

_**You have to tell him …. **_A little voice goaded in her ear_**. He deserves to know. He has the right to know ….**_

_**No!**_

_**What good would it do?**_

_**It's over, let it be.**_

_**Why should we both be hurt?**_

_**Why should you shoulder it alone? **_The little voice reasoned.

_**Because I can. Because I am strong. Because for so very long I believed that I had no other choice …. **_

_**And because he does not need to be burdened with that.**_

_**No!**_

_**Enough!**_

With all these thoughts raging, running rampant through her mind, Leigh was finding it hard to concentrate, and had to make a concerted effort to pull herself together.

She ignored his blatantly sardonic looks and, drawing in a deep breath, forced herself to focus once more on what Hawke wanted to know about the people she had lived and worked with.

"There were a lot of Americans here, and they seemed to think of the place as their personal property," she smiled gently now, with genuine fondness, as she recalled the characters who had made living and working at Whiteout Station a much more pleasant experience than it might otherwise have been.

"Boisterous lot, but good fun to be around when the place started to get you down a bit. Tyler Keegan and his team, Ronald Potter, Daniel Smith and Leonard Skinner were Metallurgists, looking at the possibility of precious metals being mined under the ice, and Eunice Anderson and Dottie O'Brien, were Meteorologists, studying weather patterns and atmospheric conditions, and of course, we had a group of scientists from Scandinavia too, people like Dr Sven Sorenson, the man we found back there on the ice …."

Leigh Roland paused for a moment, her expression once again growing sorrowful, and again Hawke caught a glimpse of some deep personal pain in her unique amber eyes, but then she lowered her face and drew in a ragged breath, before continuing, and he could only speculate as to what her feelings for the other dead man had been, even though she had vehemently denied any romantic involvement with him.

He knew that she had seen his speculative look when she had spoken of Shane Preston as being her friend, and could not help wondering just how friendly Leigh Roland had been with her male colleagues, and what kind of blind, gullible idiot her husband had been.

_**Poor sucker ….**_

_**Big brother, indeed!**_

The look that Leigh Roland aimed back at him now said all too clearly that she knew exactly what he thought of her, and that her opinion of him wasn't much better either.

She thought that he was beneath contempt, because he still harboured his suspicions about her relationship with the dead Swede.

_**My, what a nasty, dirty, suspicious mind you have, Grandma ….**_

_**All the better to hate you with my dear Leigh …..**_

Hawke picked up his spoon and forced himself to drag his gaze away from the daggers and sparks he could see in Leigh Roland's eyes now and to center his mind on what she was telling him about her colleagues, not to go running off on tangents of his own.

_**What did it matter if she had been sleeping with every man on the damned station, it wasn't his problem!**_

"Sven and his team, Bjorn Christiansen, Torben Eriksen and Jan Poulsen were biologists studying the Polar bears, and other animals and native birds, whilst Inga Bergstrom, Frank Coleman, and Lars Nilsen were marine biologists, interested in everything from microscopic planktons and fish to seals and walruses. Sometimes their work would overlap with Shane's, when they came across new organisms."

"Everyone thinks this place is barren and empty, but believe me, there is more life up here than we know, you just have to know where and how to look for it, and be prepared to suffer the discomfort that sometimes goes along with it too …."

"So who was in charge?"

"Dr De Wit, Wilhelm De Wit, a Dutchman. He wasn't actually involved in any of the science being done up here. He was the Administrator. Kept everything running from day to day, and he was very good at it. Before he came here his background was in business administration, but his hobby was computing, so if anyone had a problem with their hardware or a bug in their software, he could fix it …."

She paused when she noted Hawke's brow creasing in a frown.

"You keep calling him doctor …. But he wasn't a scientist," Hawke pointed out when she regarded him with steady amber eyes.

"I guess with all those doctorates under one roof it must seem a bit like a convention to you. Wilhelm's wasn't an honorary title if that's what you're thinking. He was a Doctor of Theology," Leigh smiled softly.

"He once told me that he was destined to join the Priesthood, but the summer before he was supposed to go into the Seminary, he met and fell in love with a raven haired beauty called Miep. They got married, and now have five strapping sons," she grinned most becomingly, but then the smile slide from her face as she realised that the man she was talking about was, in all likelihood dead.

"Leigh …."

"He had a wonderful photograph of them all on his desk. It took pride of place. They're such a handsome bunch, and he was so proud of them …. Poor Miep …."

Leigh Roland hung her head briefly, then drew in a ragged breath and focused her mind back on the information that Hawke was seeking, knowing that if she continued this way she was only going to make herself more heartsick over the fate of her friends and colleagues.

"Wilhelm was a good man. Calm, efficient, quiet and thoughtful, but he was a stickler for details. He kept us all on our toes. We had regular drills for things like fire, or if someone got caught out on the ice in a storm, or if the power failed, that sort of thing. We had strict procedures to follow in the event of a medical emergency, or if we were threatened from the outside, by, God forbid, the Russians or any other invaders …. Emergency evacuation procedures, which we practiced and practiced until we knew them in our sleep. Dr De Wit pretty much had everything covered."

"And the rest?" Hawke prompted quickly adding up names in his head and coming up short of the twenty five people Leigh Roland had told him lived here.

"A dedicated maintenance crew. Two Germans and two Frenchmen. Konrad Schneider and Hans Becker were responsible for vehicle and mechanical equipment maintenance, some of the heavy drilling equipment and the snow mobiles, and Jean-Claude Dubois and Xavier Blanc were responsible for maintaining the buildings, things like the heating system, the plumbing and of course, the electrical supply."

"So how did it work? Twenty five very different people from different cultures and backgrounds, speaking different languages …."

"We all spoke English here," Leigh Roland pointed out quickly. "It is the recognised universal language for any multi national scientific project, and it worked pretty well actually. I guess because we were all so different. The work was all so new and interesting, and some of it pretty dangerous too, especially when they were working with explosives …."

This comment caused Hawke to pause in the process of raising his spoon to his lips once more and raise his eye brow in enquiry.

"The geologists and metallurgists sometimes had to blast through the ice to get to another layer of rock, when drilling wasn't feasible," Leigh explained patiently. "They also used small shaped charges, blasting through the rock to make recordings with the seismographic equipment. They were all highly trained in the handling of explosives and it was all very well supervised. We didn't have a single accident in six months …."

"Go on …." Hawke invited, bringing the spoon to his lips now and swallowing down the soup, although he was not hungry, nor was he actually enjoying the meal, but it gave him something to do whilst listening to Leigh Roland, keeping his mind off his errant thoughts, and his innate good manners refused to allow him to waste perfectly good food.

"We all worked just that little bit harder to get along. Everyone was on top of each other, all the time, nowhere to go for any real privacy, except for Greg and me, because we had married quarters, but even then, it wasn't really private, so everyone tried to get to know each other and get along."

"We shared chores like cooking, and keeping the place clean and tidy and drawing up the lists of supplies that we needed, we had rotas so everyone had to muck in and do their bit. But it wasn't all work and no play. We had organised sports and recreational activities, musical and cultural events."

"This was a happy place to live and work, Hawke, because we all faced the same dangers and uncertainties day after day. We had to be able to trust each other, and rely on each other, to stay alive. I'm not saying that people didn't get moody and irritable, that tempers didn't flare from time to time, but in general, people tried to keep their feelings to themselves. The place would have gone to hell in five minutes if we were all sniping at each other …."

"Ok, thanks. I've got a better picture now."

"And?" She demanded sharply.

Hawke gently shook his head in response.

He still had no ideas.

"No representatives from Russia?" He asked softly now.

"No, although I suspect that we would have shared our discoveries with them, eventually. I wouldn't be at all surprised if they didn't fund their own research station sooner or later. Everyone wants reserves of oil and gas to fall back on. The Russians are no different to the rest of the world, and a lot of their country falls within the Arctic Circle. Stands to reason that if we find something here, they will find it within their own borders too, sooner or later."

"Was there anyone you didn't like, Leigh?" Hawke probed now, aware that with so many people living in close confines there must surely have been personality clashes, people who took an instant dislike to each other, or saw someone as a threat to them and their work.

It happened, no matter how relaxed and friendly people tried to be.

After a while, living in such close proximity, there was no getting away from the fact that people got on each other's nerves.

"Anyone who stood out as being odd or out of place? Anyone you disliked, but couldn't find a reason as to why? Anyone who was distant and didn't mix with the rest?"

"No," Leigh Roland responded with a cold, defiant tone.

"No-one your gut told you was off? No-one you just couldn't take to, no matter how hard you tried?"

"No. Look, people worked hard, Hawke, but they did so with a spirit of co-operation and tolerance. We couldn't get away from each other, but that didn't mean that we lived in each other's pockets either. We respected everyone's right to their own thoughts and their privacy such as it was," she explained in an exaggeratedly patient voice.

"We didn't always feel like socialising after work. People relaxed in many different ways. We couldn't get TV here, for obvious reasons, so some of us folks would sometimes sit around and have a chat after dinner, maybe try to learn a new language, pick up a few hints about the places our colleagues came from, reminisce about home, our childhoods, our families …."

"Others preferred to unwind over a game of chess or checkers, sometimes a friendly game of poker, or pool, and then there were others who would just go to bed with a good book, or to their rooms to write their families, or write up their notes," she paused to draw in a soft breath.

"People had various hobbies too. Jean-Claude was always stressing about the plot of his mystery novel, threatened we would all find ourselves in it, one day, and wouldn't we be surprised at which of us he had chosen as his murderer. It was a running joke, because I don't think he ever got past the first chapter."

"Dottie was a pretty good water color artist, even got some illustrations accepted for a children's book a few weeks before I went on leave. Sven wrote the sweetest poetry for his wife and baby. Tyler Keegan played the piano accordion, very badly, tormenting us with Lady of bloody Spain every chance he got. Eunice loved to knit and crochet, making dolls clothes to sell to raise funds for various children's charities, and Torben was always composing some new love song for his sweetheart back home in Denmark …."

Her voice caught in the back of her throat, as once again Leigh Roland's mind was drawn to the fate of her friends and Hawke could empathise, just a little, for she was making them all too real and human to him when she spoke about them so warmly.

Hawke had to admit that she had done a pretty good job of bringing the scientists to life for him, and he suspected that she had done it on purpose, that in making them real and human, alive to him, he would start to care more about their fate.

"It wasn't a holiday camp, Hawke," she spoke in a low, flat voice when she had composed herself once more.

"We lived in cramped accommodation, with few of the little luxuries other people take for granted, the same unchanging scenery, and weather conditions that made just stepping out for the occasional breath of fresh air impossible. Acutely aware that it was so easy to become paranoid, of succumbing to 'cabin fever', so every now and then, we let our hair down a little. Someone would put on a record and we would have a dance, or someone would get out their guitar, usually Torben, and we would have a kind of campfire sing-along, without the campfire, of course …."

She paused briefly, and a ghost of a smile touched her lips.

"Occasionally someone would do an impression, or tell a funny story, and most weekends we would have some kind of sports tournament. If the weather was bad, it would be indoor stuff like darts, or arm wrestling tournaments, Scrabble, Monopoly or Tidily Winks, something daft like that, and if the weather was clear and we could get outside, skiing, ice hockey or snow soccer, something to work off excess energy."

Again she paused to draw in a breath, and again Hawke saw her face cloud over with sadness.

"And on Sundays, those of us who were inclined went to church," she let out a deep, ragged sigh then. "Nothing organised or specific, you understand. A few hymns, a few prayers, a little spiritual uplifting, no matter what faith we subscribed to out there. Here, we were a family, appealing to one God, with many names and guises …. And then we would all sit down to a big family lunch."

"We made the best of a difficult situation, and like I already said, they were all special people, and they were all my friends …. My family …."

Hawke nodded gently, and set down his soup spoon, no longer able to face taking another sip.

If he took everything that Leigh had just told him, on face value, then he simply could not see what might have attracted the unwanted attention of the Russians, or any other interested party for that matter.

"And, I already told you, we weren't putting together the next Atom bomb or Hydrogen bomb, and we weren't brewing up chemical or biological weapons either," Leigh's tone was hard and cold again now.

"I don't know what happened to them, Hawke, but I bloody well intend to find out, and I'm not going to be able to do that sitting here on my duff sipping soup and coffee!"

"I don't know what happened here either, Leigh, and I am just as keen to get to the bottom of it, and get the hell out of here, as you are, but I don't have a clue what I am looking for, or even where to start looking," Hawke sighed deeply, ignoring her outburst, knowing that it was again caused by her genuine concern for the people she cared about, and chastising himself now because he suspected that he had been way off with his thoughts about her fidelity.

He suspected that he wanted to be angry, antagonistic, spoiling for a fight, because it was easier to deal with her, than to accept the realisation that he still cared a great deal for her, had never really gotten over her, and still didn't understand where it had all gone so wrong.

"The way I see it, there is one thing that we need to do right off, and that is to get in touch with Nome and let them know what we have found here so far. I assume Dr Preston has some kind of family back home in Australia, so they will need to be notified of his death," Hawke kept his tone neutral now.

"So, first order of business, after you finish your lunch …. Don't look at me like that, Leigh, I won't have you getting sicker because you are neglecting yourself," he told her sternly now.

"You're not kidding anyone with this head cold routine any more," Hawke lowered his voice then, tempering his irritation and trying to force a note of concern into it. "I know you're worried, scared, upset over your father …. But you need to take care of yourself, Leigh. So, humour me and eat a little something to put the roses back in your cheeks …."

Of course, Leigh Roland knew that Hawke was right, but she just didn't have the stomach for it right now.

Although her anger at Hawke had dissipated a little, she was tired, feeling sickly and she wanted to scratch off every damned inch of her skin and scalp, but there was no way she was going to let on to either of her companions just how wretched she really felt.

It might just be a reaction to that damned flight suit Hawke had made her wear, and aside from the fact that it had afforded her little in the way of real warmth, that was another reason why she had wanted to get out of it as quickly as she could, but she doubted it.

The blemishes that she had found all over her torso and back were far too familiar to her.

And looked nothing like any allergic reaction she had ever seen.

Tied up with everything else that she was feeling, the jack hammer headache drilling away at the inside of her skull, the intermittent blurred vision, the dizziness and light headedness, the lethargy and irritation, not to mention the nausea, it was probably more than just an allergic reaction.

Of course, she would know for sure in a day or two ….

And if she was right with her diagnosis, Hawke and Santini would both find out about it soon enough, and then they could all be uncomfortable and miserable together!

However, if she was right about her diagnosis, her deepest regret was that poor Dominic Santini was probably going to feel its effects worst of all.

_**She would have to keep a close eye on him, just in case ….**_

_**If she had known before the outset that he would be coming …. **_

_**Had known for sure that it wasn't just a head cold after all ….**_

_**But she hadn't and there was nothing she could do about it now.**_

_**They were all in this together, and they would just have to deal with it the best way they could.**_

Maybe they would find out what had happened here and be well away from Whiteout before either Hawke or Santini started to show symptoms.

Besides, if she hadn't felt so damned dizzy and off balance, she would never have reached out for support and accidentally pushed open Shane's door, and they wouldn't have found his body ….

Their first real clue as to what had happened to the people here.

Maybe ….

"I couldn't …." She protested weakly, forcing herself to blot out the image of Shane Preston's dead, staring eyes and blue tinged face and lips. "Not right now. I'll have something later, I promise …."

"Leigh," Stringfellow Hawke suddenly grew hesitant now, eyes growing wide as realisation began to dawn, and although he was wary of her reaction, he needed to ask the question. "Are you …."

"Am I what?" Leigh Roland snapped, blinking rapidly as she suddenly realised what Hawke was asking her, that he had been putting two and two together, and coming up with his own solution.

"Are you asking me if I'm pregnant?" Her voice rose, both in pitch and volume, climbing up through the scale, twin spots of color suffusing her cheeks, golden eyes blazing with outrage at his sheer gall.

"Are you?" Hawke asked softly, trying to hide his own mixed feelings at the thought that she might very well be carrying her husband's child right now.

It would certainly account for the symptoms he had witnessed so far.

The fact that she had fainted in Archangel's office, although at first he had put that down to her shock at seeing, and recognising him after all this time, but now it fitted in with everything else, her pallor, tiredness, her mood swings and irrational irritability, and the obvious signs of nausea ….

"You …."

Leigh Roland bit back the word that was on the tip of her tongue, mindful of his earlier warning about what he might do if she called him that again, and flinging back her chair, rose swiftly from her seat, almost knocking the soup bowl over, and sending the spoon clattering to the floor.

Fists clenched at her side, Leigh Roland battled with her anger, frustration and outrage, tears streaming unhindered down her flushed cheeks as she glared at Hawke, amber eyes shooting daggers and sparks at him, and then silently, she span on her heel and marched out of the recreation area, Hawke rising swiftly from his seat too, meaning to follow her, but Dominic Santini reached out and grabbed his forearm, gently restraining him, noting the sick, angry and confused expression on the younger man's face as he did so.

"Let her be, String," Santini advised gently, applying a little pressure to Hawke's arm now.

"She shouldn't be alone right now …."

"And I'd say that's exactly what she needs right now. String, or else she might be tempted to shoot you. I know I am …."

"I'm just worried about her, that's all Dom …." Hawke confessed on a deep sigh, as he sank wearily back down into his seat and turned desolate eyes on Santini. "I don't even know what made me ask …."

"They why did you?" Santini asked in incredulity, letting the younger man know that it had been incredibly insensitive and far from subtle.

_**Even if she was pregnant, what was it to him?**_

"Because I think maybe she's sicker than she's letting on, and I guess I don't want to think about the alternatives …."

And now there was something in Hawke's voice that told Santini that he was remembering another young woman he had cared about, not so very long ago, who had died in his arms in a far flung desert, her life stolen from her by violence.

They were two very different sets of circumstances, but a pattern that the young man could not seem to get away from.

His deepest fear, that he was some kind of jinx and that being involved with him meant that their lives would be cut short.

Stringfellow Hawke had come to believe over the years, that his love was like a death sentence to any woman who came too close to him, and now, it seemed, he was having those same thoughts about Leigh Roland.

So, the young man wasn't immune to her after all.

Obviously, somewhere deep down inside, he cared for her, and that was why it was so hard for him to deal with her, Santini reasoned to himself silently.

He loved her.

Well …. Still carried a torch for her at least, Santini silently amended.

However, anger was the strongest emotion he was directing, toward himself and Leigh Roland, right now, because to admit any tender feelings for her would mean that he would have to face up to the possibility that his love might end up killing her.

"So, you're a doctor too now? Gee, I guess I missed all those years of learning you did at the ACME school of medicine!" Santini rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation now.

"It's possible though, Dom." Hawke pointed out gruffly. "And if she is pregnant, that makes me responsible for her life, and the life of her child, while we're here …."

"Responsible? Like hell, kid. If she is pregnant, and she knew it coming up here, she also knew the risks. I'd say that indicates that she is more than willing to accept responsibility, for herself and her child. It's also none of your damned business," Santini reminded darkly. "What is it with you two, String? Why the hell do you want to keep hurting each other?"

"Leave it, Dom …."

"I'm sick of leaving it, String. You got me thinking all kinds of crazy things …."

"I said leave it."

Now Hawke's tone was dark and ominous, his expression tight with barely controlled anger.

"Fine," Santini acquiesced on a deep sigh. "I'm just a little tired of getting caught up in the crossfire …." He gave another deep sigh, then lowered his rheumy grey eyes to regard the younger man's half finished meal. "You gonna eat that soup or not?"

"Be my guest. I might just choke on it …." Hawke scowled deeply, pushing the bowl toward Santini, who grinned at the younger man now.

"Sooner or later, you're gonna spill the beans, kid."

"Don't hold your breath, Dom," Hawke warned.

"The way you two are going, you won't be able to stop yourself. Something's gotta give, String. You mark my words."

/a

Locked in the room where she had shared many a happy hour with her beloved husband, Greg Chandler, Leigh Roland flung her self down on the bed and burying her face in the blankets and pillows, gave into the violent sobs that wracked her body and rendered her speechless and breathless for several minutes.

_**Damn the man!**_

_**Why had he had to ask her that bloody question!**_

_**What the hell business was it of his anyway!**_

And yet, from somewhere deep down inside, the little voice of reason was back, whispering into her ear that he had been anxious about her, concerned for her health, and it had been that which had prompted him to ask what was obviously the most relevant question in the forefront of his mind.

He hadn't meant to hurt her.

He had been genuinely worried for her.

And maybe trying to show her that he still cared, just a little ….

_**Oh God ….**_

_**Oh God ….**_

_**I can't do this!**_

_**I can't deal with him!**_

_**He was the centre of my universe, all too briefly, all those years ago, and then, when he was gone, my life was nothing, a vacuum …. **_

_**And then Greg came along, and I was finally able to let go, to make peace …. **_

_**Now Greg might be dead, and Hawke is here …. **_

_**Resurrected ….**_

_**Tell me what am I to do?**_

_**What am I supposed to say?**_

_**What am I supposed to feel?**_

_**Why am I so angry with him, when I still love him so damned much!**_

_**I never stopped …. **_

_**Even though I do love Greg, I never stopped loving Hawke …. How could I?**_

_**It wasn't his fault.**_

_**He has no idea what I have been through, what I have suffered ….**_

_**And why is he so damned angry and hostile?**_

_**Because, he thinks you dumped him!**_

The little voice shouted over her raging thoughts, and Leigh Roland knew instantly that it was the only possible answer for Hawke's behaviour.

He thought that she had simply forgotten about him and moved on to the next lonely GI, that she had never loved him, had never meant to see him again ….

That she had simply been having a good time with him, stringing him along, and when he was gone, had moved on to the next guy who could make her feel good, without giving him another thought ….

_**He came back!**_

The little voice reminded, taunting.

Yes, Dominic Santini had hinted that he had gone back there to Sydney, and although Hawke had neither confirmed nor denied it, there had been something about the way he had reacted ….

Now, she knew in her heart that it was true, and the pain that stabbed through her chest almost choked her.

_**He came back!**_

_**Oh God, he came back …. **_

_**And when he found me gone ….**_

_**Ohmygod …. **_

_**Ohmygod ….**_

_**Was that really what he thought?**_

_**That I was just some flighty good time girl? **_

_**No better than a whore!**_

_**Oh no ….**_

_**No, no, no ….**_

_**It was never like that!**_

_**I loved him!**_

_**Oh God, you know how much I loved him ….**_

_**I thought he knew it too ….**_

_**I thought I would die when he was gone …. **_

_**When you took him away from me ….**_

_**I lost everything …. **_

_**My life ended ….**_

_**Until Greg came along and I started to learn to feel again, to trust again, to live again ….**_

_**And yes, to love again ….**_

_**And now you've taken him from me too!**_

_**What more do you want from me? **_

_**Haven't you taken enough!**_

_**Oh God, why are you doing this to me!**_

_**Why!**_

_**Why couldn't you just leave things as they were!**_

/a

"Leigh?" Stringfellow Hawke knocked gently on the door to the room Leigh Roland had indicated that she had shared with her husband, Greg Chandler, flashlight in the other hand, illuminating the chrome name plate at eye level on the door, just to be sure.

He paused, waiting for a response then leaned a little closer, hoping to hear some sound from within that would reassure him that she was alright.

Hawke had reached the limit of his patience, after spending the last twenty minutes firstly, watching Dominic Santini finish his soup, and then when he was done, both men had carried the dirty dishes and cutlery back to the kitchen and made short work of washing them with bottled water they boiled in an old fashioned whistling tea kettle on the small camp stove, and then drying them and put them away neatly in the cupboards and drawers.

"Should earn us a few Brownie points …." Santini had grinned at his young friend as he had hung up the tea towel to dry, eyeing the coffee pot on the counter with undisguised longing, but then had seen the impatient look on Hawke's face and had followed him out of the kitchen with a deep sigh of resignation.

Hawke's impatience stemmed from his anxiety about Leigh Roland, Santini knew, and to his way of thinking, twenty minutes was plenty of time for them both to indulge in whatever it was that was bugging them.

Now it was time to move on.

Hawke knocked on the door once more, and when no answer was forthcoming, he turned anxious eyes on his companion, Dominic Santini.

"Dr Roland," Santini called out now, hoping that she might be more inclined to answer him than Hawke. "Are you alright, doctor?"

Hawke wondered if maybe they should have tried the sickbay first, but he had thought that this was the most logical place to start looking for her.

Some place where Leigh Roland had felt secure and comfortable, where she could be alone with her grief and her other turbulent emotions, in private, in familiar surroundings, where she could also feel close to her husband.

If it turned out she hadn't come here, then sickbay was the next place on Hawke's list.

A few seconds later, they were rewarded with muffled sounds from within and then the click of a lock being disengaged, and slowly, Leigh Roland opened the door, just a crack, and the expression on her face tore at both Hawke and Santini's hearts, as she peered out into the gloomy corridor at each of them.

Dominic Santini automatically raised the hurricane lantern that he was carrying, to cast more light on her face, and found himself wishing that he hadn't, for she had obviously been weeping, her amber eyes still sparkling with unshed tears, red rimmed and swollen, her cheeks flushed and blotchy, her nose red and shiny, but it was the complete lack of emotion in the way she regarded both men that revealed just how deeply upset and hurt she was.

"Leigh, I'm sorry …." Hawke began, but she turned cold, flat, empty amber eyes on him and he stopped in mid sentence.

There was nothing that he could say that would make either of them feel better.

"I'm not pregnant," she told him in a cold, desolate voice, something in her tone and in her eyes indicating a pain that went way beyond any words to describe and Hawke felt his breath catch in his throat.

"Leigh …."

"I'm not dying either, Hawke," she told him coldly, although something in her eyes softened just a little, as though she appreciated that he was genuinely concerned for her wellbeing. "I'm just a little …. Off colour. Let's leave it at that, shall we?"

"Sure," Hawke sighed softly, grateful for the olive branch she was offering. "We thought we might go take a look at the radio," he added as she opened the door wider and moved further out across the threshold toward him and Santini, and both men had to stand to one side to allow her to exit the room, pulling the door closed behind her. "We still need to let Nome know what we have learned so far …."

"We thought about what you said. That the radio its self might be fine, but with the power out …." Santini added.

"Is there a back up generator?" Hawke asked now, falling into step beside Leigh Roland as she pulled her Parka coat around her more tightly and headed off down Broadway toward the telecommunications room.

"Yes," she answered without turning to look at him, her voice low and hollow and devoid of life or emotion, and Stringfellow Hawke suddenly had a horrible sinking feeling that he had inadvertently raised the one subject that was taboo to Leigh Roland.

_**Idiot!**_

_**Maybe her husband doesn't want kids? **_

_**Did you ever stop and think about that?**_

_**Maybe she can't have kids ….**_

_**Oh God ….**_

_**You cruel, thoughtless, selfish sonofa ….**_

_**Dom's right, you've got to stop trying to punish her for something that happened a long time ago.**_

"Then maybe we could get that going," Hawke suggested hopefully now. "If not, there's always Airwolf. But I'd rather not have to keep trudging out there to the warehouse every time we need to talk to someone on the outside. Too risky. The weather has closed in. Can't see your hand in front of your face out there now, and I can't see it getting any better any time soon," he gave a deep, shoulder raising sigh. "Someone could easily get lost, loose their footing, fall over and break a leg …. It makes more sense to stay inside and use the radio equipment here."

Leigh Roland suddenly came to a halt in front of another half opened door, and reaching out to the handle, shoved it wide open, stepping aside to make room for Hawke and Santini to enter, aware that the room was not large enough to accommodate all of them at once.

"Knock yourselves out …." She offered in a flat voice, but suddenly noticed the looks on both men's faces, and balancing on tip toe, peered in to the radio room over Hawke's shoulder to see what the problem was.

"Bloody hell!" She moaned as she took in the sight before her.

The massive radio had been wrecked, suffering what looked to be similar treatment to the generators outside. All the dials had been smashed, the knobs twisted off and there were huge dents and scratches where someone had taken a fire ax to it, successfully managing to destroy the earphones and microphone, and severe all the electrical wiring.

The chrome and black leather chair in front of the radio had been smashed too, the black leather slashed open and the foam stuffing from the seat and back rest pulled out and thrown all over the floor. Papers, files and various items of stationary had also been scattered all around the small room.

The place looked like a bomb had gone off inside it, and Leigh Roland stared, open mouthed, one hand planted on her narrow hip and the other scratching her head as she surveyed the wreckage.

However, that was not the worst of it, she quickly realised, for Stringfellow Hawke had made another startling discovery, drawing her attention to what could only be a bullet hole, slap bang in the middle of the transmitting circuitry.

"I thought you didn't have weapons up here?" He ground out through clenched teeth, turning hard, angry eyes on Roland now.

"I didn't say that …." She responded wearily. "I just said I couldn't believe that _**you**_ had brought weapons here," she paused to draw in a breath. "Naturally we had weapons. This is polar bear country after all, and you don't try to reason with an angry mother trying to feed or protect her cubs, or a frisky male in mating season," she pointed out impatiently.

"What kind of weapons are we talking about, doctor, and how many?"

"Where were the weapons stored?"

Hawke and Santini spoke together, over each other, and for a moment, Leigh Roland stood and stared at them both with a blank expression on her face, until she registered their individual questions.

"Tranquiliser guns. Shot guns, for use by certified marksman only and personal hand guns for emergencies out there on the ice. A half a dozen of each. They were stored in the Armoury of course. Along with the tranquilizers, ammunition and the emergency flares and the explosives …."

She concluded with a gulp, amber eyes growing wide as she suddenly could not stop herself from wondering if the fire in the labs had been an accident after all, or if indeed some of her colleagues had succumbed to severe isolation sickness and in their insanity had deliberately destroyed the other building, hoping to cover up evidence of their deranged and depraved behaviour ….

"Take it easy, Leigh …." Hawke reached out for her as she began to sway alarmingly. "It's just one bullet hole. Looks like a deliberate shot to disable the radio," Hawke pointed out in a calm voice as he pulled her close and felt her slender body trembling against his own.

"Then why take a bloody ax to it as well?" She gasped out, fighting down hysteria. "It doesn't make any bloody sense!"

Hawke and Santini shared a look that confirmed their agreement with her assessment.

It didn't make any sense.

Unless, of course, the damage had been caused by two separate attacks on the radio, by two different individuals.

But as to why?

Neither man had any answers.

"Well that's well and truly stuffed that up!" Roland gave an hysterical little laugh as she roughly pulled herself out of Hawke's embrace now. "What now?" She demanded, as though Hawke and Santini had all the answers.

"I guess we have no choice but to use Airwolf's radio," Hawke exhaled loudly in frustration now. "But not until the weather clears a little. I doubt even Airwolf's radio equipment would be able to punch a signal though this storm …."

"We should check out the Armoury too, see if any weapons are missing …." Santini suggested warily and Hawke nodded his agreement.

"This is crazy …." Leigh Roland let out a ragged breath. "Why would anyone want to shoot the radio …. Smash it to pieces like that?"

"I don't know, Leigh," Hawke sighed deeply now and fixed his beautiful blue eyes on her, taking in her dishevelled appearance and shocked expression and knew that she was almost at the end of her endurance for this day. "I just know that it's all the more important that we stick together, and watch each other's backs."

"You think someone is out there running around with a gun?" Her tone was incredulous now.

"No, not out there …." Hawke snarled and watched the shock on her face turn firstly into denial, and then into abject fear, as Leigh Roland realised that he could indeed have a point. "The weather is too bad for someone to be hiding out there now, but that doesn't mean they didn't sneak in behind us …. We haven't checked out the rest of this place yet. So be careful people …."

"Oh, for God's sake! Are you totally bloody insane!" Leigh Roland exploded, eyes wide with shock and horror and spitting flames at Stringfellow Hawke now, but, he knew that the real reason for her reaction had nothing to do with anger.

She was afraid.

And she had every right to be.

This was way beyond anything she might have expected to be faced with, here in the place she thought of as home.

"It's a big place Leigh, lots of dark places to hide out, to watch and wait …." Hawke rationalised for her.

"Yeah, and even if we turn the whole ruddy place upside down, we might never find the mystery ax murderer!" She retaliated sarcastically, with a nasty sneer.

"Look at us, we're like the three bloody stooges! Even if we searched every damned nook and cranny, it wouldn't be difficult for someone to stay one step ahead of us. But wait a damned minute, I thought you used that fancy ruddy helicopter of yours to scan for life signs before we landed!" She planted both her hands firmly on her hips now and glared at Hawke defiantly, daring him to deny it.

"She's got a point, String," Dominic Santini stepped in now, before things got too heated between these two young people again and he had to start dishing out boxing gloves.

Santini knew that his young friend was only being cautious, covering all the options, but in view of where they were and the climatic conditions, it did seem just a little far fetched, even to him, that Norman Bates might be lurking in some dark corner ready to wield his knife ….

"I ran thermal scans, and there was nothing. Nada. Zilch. I covered the whole complex. Nothing …."

"And there was a whole damned building still smouldering out there, Dom. That could easily have hidden a human thermal signature," Hawke reminded scathingly and Santini grew sheepish, knowing that the young man was indeed correct, and that right now he needed his old friend to support him and back him up not question his ability to think rationally.

"Look, all I am saying is that we need to be careful," Hawke sighed expressively again, and now Santini nodded in agreement.

"Ok, String."

"Alright, Hawke …." Leigh Roland capitulated on a ragged sigh, unable to suddenly shake the notion that it might not be paranoia after all, and that he might just be right.

Something totally crazy had happened here, and until they found out exactly what it was, they had to trust each other, and support each other.

Ok, so he was arrogant and forceful and overbearing, and pompous ….

But it didn't mean that he was completely wide of the mark either.

"What now?" She asked with a note of resignation now.

"We check this block out, make sure it's secure. If someone is hiding, we need to make it as difficult as we can for them to remain hidden, to sneak up on us. You know this place, Leigh. Show us the most likely place for someone to hide or to ambush us …."

"Fine, then let's just get on with it, and then maybe we can get on with what we came here for. Finding out what happened to the people who lived here."

/a

Slowly and very carefully, Hawke in the lead, handgun drawn in readiness, Leigh Roland tucked up close behind him and Dominic Santini, weapon in hand too, taking up the rear, the group back tracked and began by securing the rooms in the accommodation block, checking every nook and cranny, in every cupboard and under every bed to make sure that there was no-one lying in wait to ambush them, and then Leigh Roland stepped up to the front and lead them to the Armoury, where she would check the log book to see how many weapons were supposed to be there and how much ammunition was stored.

The Armoury was located behind the Administration area, behind Dr Wilhelm De Wit's office and was basically a large steel safe like box, which had a heavy steel door and an electronic push button security coded lock set into the steel wall beside it, but as they approached the door, and Dominic Santini raised the hurricane lantern a little higher to throw off more light, it was easy to see that it was already wide open.

"Could that have happened when the power failed?" Hawke asked Leigh Roland, waving his flashlight beam over the security panel and the open door.

"No," Leigh exhaled heavily, her breath a plume of vapor in the frigid air, her tone adamant "This thing is like a safe in a bank. It has failsafe and back up systems. If the power fails the lock can't be opened. It was a design feature that Dr De Wit insisted on. He didn't want just anyone to be able to walk in there and take what they wanted when the power failed, or in the event it was deliberately cut off."

"If the power goes off, the door double locks automatically and you have to wait for the power to come back on and the security codes to be changed by the manufacturer in Switzerland," she explained a little breathlessly now. "We weren't stupid, Hawke. This might be the ends of the earth, but we were still aware of the dangers from across that Arctic Ocean."

"Then someone came here, was maybe forced by someone or something, to come here, when the power was still on," Hawke exhaled deeply, nodding in acceptance of her explanation, whilst wondering what had made the civilian scientists feel the need to reach for weapons, and not liking the answer he got back.

"Careful …." He whispered as Leigh Roland stepped forward, reminding her that there might still be someone inside.

Closing in behind her, weapon in his right hand, raised in readiness, flashlight in the other hand, beam illuminating the way ahead for her, Hawke watched as Leigh reached out and pushed the door wide open, stepped inside and then let out a startled little gasp.

Hawke was right behind her, weapon raised, finger hovering over the trigger, eyes darting around the small windowless room as Dominic Santini also hurried in behind him, light from his hurricane lantern flooding the room now.

"Holy cow!" Santini gasped as he surveyed the wreckage.

Various cupboards, all with heavy steel doors and padlocks had been ripped open, by someone with super human strength, torn from hinges, locks snapped as though they were plastic not high tension steel, and the contents of the cupboards, the weapons and ammunition, upturned boxes of the flares and explosives that Leigh had told them about where scattered around them on the floor.

Hawke noted immediately that the weapons had all been disabled in some way, barrels bent, firing pins buckled or removed, ammunition littering the floor, but all of it pristine and unspent. The flares he could see peeking out from under one of the boxes seemed to have been slashed and squashed, as if someone had stamped all over them, and the explosives, sticks of dynamite also peeking out from beneath an upturned box had all had their fuses yanked out or were slit open, the black explosive powder inside seeping out onto the cold concrete floor.

"What a wreck …."

"This is bizarre!" Leigh Roland whispered, her voice wavering just a little as she took in the scene of destruction around her.

"Anything missing, Leigh?" Hawke demanded, finding himself in complete agreement with her as he tried to understand what it was he was looking at.

Why would someone deliberately destroy all these weapons?

If the scientists had been under attack, they would have needed them to defend themselves.

And if their attackers had forced the scientists to come here and open the Armoury, why hadn't they just taken the weapons themselves, instead of rendering them useless?

The way Hawke looked at it now, he realised that whoever had done this, had done so deliberately and to prevent the weapons from falling into someone's hands ….

The wrong hands.

And, if not an attacking force ….

It could mean only one thing.

Something terrible had happened to the scientists ….

Possibly Leigh's suspicions that they had fallen victim of sever isolation sickness, and that that had made them all paranoid, maybe driven them insane, and that maybe someone had had just enough grip on their own sanity and enough foresight to come here and destroy these weapons before the others could get their hands on them and have free reign, run amok ….

Turning the weapons on each other ….

Themselves ….

But how could something like that happen so quickly?

Surely they didn't all just flip their lids inside of a couple of days?

Leigh was right.

None of it made sense, and it was completely bizarre, and the sooner they got to the bottom of it, and then got away from here, the happier he would feel.

"Leigh?" Hawke ground out again as he realised that Leigh Roland was still rooted to the spot, staring wide eyed and totally confused, in the centre of the room.

"I'm on it …." She responded in a vague little voice then and forced her legs to carry her across the room to a small desk situated in a corner, where she pulled open the top drawer and extracted a large hard backed black ledger, quickly setting it down on top of the desk and opening it up at the page with the last entry.

Dominic Santini strode up beside her and raised the hurricane lantern over her shoulder so she could read the ledger and he watched as she ran her index finger quickly down the columns.

"It looks like the last time any weapons were logged out was …. February 15th. That's last Wednesday."

A frown marred her brow now, as Leigh tried to recall if Nome had still been in contact with Whiteout at that point and remembered that they had been able to get through on the radio until Tuesday.

Katie Morgan had told her that they had had no contact with Whiteout since Wednesday, and now she recalled that contact had been with the pilot of the supply plane, reporting his departure time and flight plan, not actually with any of the scientists at Whiteout.

So, something must have happened after their routine check in call on Tuesday, because if it had happened before that, someone would have told Nome, and they in turn would have passed the information on either to herself, or to Archangel and Santini.

After that, the weather had closed in quickly, and there had been no chance of any further radio contact.

"Wait …. Looks like they took out a rifle, a tranquiliser gun and three Colt 45s on the 13th, and the same again on the 14th. That was Monday and Tuesday of last week. There's no entry to indicate that the weapons taken out on Monday were ever logged back in, but there is an entry for Tuesday which indicates that the rifle, tranquilizer gun and all three Colt 45's were returned along with all the ammunition the same day …."

"Why, Leigh? What was the reason?" Hawke quizzed. "Why the discrepancy, and why three days in a row?"

"It doesn't say. This log is just for security and procedural purposes. The weapons were properly logged out and then logged back in again, logged out on Monday by Tyler Keegan. Logged out and back in again on Tuesday by Leonard Skinner and Wednesday by Konrad Schneider, all supervised in and out by Dr De Wit," Leigh Roland explained, glancing up to find Hawke scowling at her.

"It was purely routine for them to take the weapons out if there was some need to go out onto the ice. There didn't necessarily have to be some kind of threat," she sighed softly, taking another closer look at the ledger.

"With the exception of Monday, they were all logged out early in the morning, and each time they were returned, along with all the ammunition, the same day …." She drew in a deep breath. "I don't know why it happened three days in a row, Hawke, but I do know how we can find out," she raised her eyes to Hawke once more, and this time there was a spark of triumph in them.

"Dr De Wit kept a daily activities log. He made a note of everything that happened here, no matter how mundane. We should go to his office and see if we can find his log."

"Good idea, but first, we should check to see if anything is missing from here," Hawke reminded her gently. "You said Dr De Wit was a stickler for procedure, so explain the procedure for issuing weapons to me, the circumstances in which he would have thought it reasonable to arm his people," Hawke invited.

"Ok," Leigh Roland exhaled raggedly, pulling her thoughts together. "The general rule was, everyone who went out on the ice had to have at least one armed marksman with them, and everyone else had to have their own handgun, just in case they got separated from the group and got into trouble. We all got certified before we came here," she explained, drawing in a ragged breath, the look on her face revealing to Hawke her personal dislike and distaste for firearms, but her acceptance that learning to use them had been a necessary evil in the fight to survive up here at the top of the world.

"The marksman carried a shot gun and a tranquiliser gun. If the group encountered a polar bear the marksman first fired a warning shot. Usually that was enough. It sent the animal packing and brought others in the group to your immediate assistance. But sometimes, it was necessary to shoot the animal, with a tranquiliser dart …." She paused to take a breath. "But if you got separated, if you found yourself alone, then you had no choice but to shoot the animal. Being squeamish or soft hearted could end up getting you killed …." She concluded breathlessly.

"I assume if Dr De Wit felt there was some kind of threat from outside, he would also have issued weapons?" Hawke pressed.

"Yes. We even had a drill for that too," Leigh Roland exhaled deeply, her tone a little sarcastic now. "And of course, we all had to keep our hand in, so once a month we all drew a weapon and did a little target practice. We turned it into a tournament and the winner even got a prize …."

"Ok, let's see what's missing."

"Ok," Leigh Roland returned her attention to the ledger and again scanned the columns of neat handwriting.

"Looks like Tyler Keegan logged the first lot of weapons out, Monday, 13th, at about three o'clock in the afternoon. I don't know why they weren't logged back in again, unless they were posting guards outside all night …." Leigh Roland pondered aloud, and Hawke saw the anxiety return to her eyes.

"All the weapons and ammo logged out by Leonard Skinner were returned after lunch on the 14th, and after that, there were no more entries, nothing else checked out, until the following morning. Konrad Schnieder checked out a rifle, a tranquilizer gun and three Colt 45s, at nine o'clock on Wednesday morning, but again they were returned before dark, logged back in, along with all the ammunition by three thirty in the afternoon," Leigh recapped.

"So there should still be five rifles, five tranquiliser guns and three Colts. Forty nine boxes of rifle ammo and the same for the 45's, and three full boxes of tranquilizer darts and one half full box …." her gaze then drifted to the floor, littered with the cartridges and then she looked back at Hawke, her meaning quite clear.

It would be impossible to account for all the ammunition unless they were prepared to get down on their hands and knees and count every shell, and she suspected that Hawke had neither the time nor the patience for that.

However, Hawke was busy scrutinising the damaged weapons he could see, some in pieces on the floor amongst the ammo, others still in their grooves in the cupboards, all rendered useless in one way or another, and gave a huge, shoulder raising sigh when he realised that there was a Colt missing.

That must have been the weapon used to shoot out the radio, he concluded, but then reminded himself that it was good news. It meant that he now had only to worry about the possibility of one person running around with a weapon, not a group of them.

It made the odds better in their favour now.

"What about the flares? Explosives?"

"One box of one hundred emergency flares. Two boxes of fifty of each of the C4 Plastique and Gelignite. A fresh box of dynamite and a consignment of nitroglycerine, a hundred bottles, both unopened, plus detonators and fuses," Leigh recited from the inventory.

"Looks like Greg and his team signed out half a dozen packs of C4 explosive on Monday, 13th February, probably because they broke a drill bit the day before …." She knew this because Nome had asked her to put in an order for a second drill bit when she had made contact with them to let them know she was being held up in Los Angeles.

"And they returned two unused packs that same evening. Before that, there were two completely new boxes. Supply plane had delivered a fresh consignment of everything the week before and no-one had needed to use any."

Leigh Roland explained in a calm voice now, obviously trying to form some kind of time line for events here at Whiteout in her absence.

She was obviously thinking more clearly and rationally, less emotionally now, Hawke was pleased to note, as he ambled over to an upturned box of flares and noted that beneath it most of the rockets lay smashed, their fuses yanked out, or slashed, the red powder inside seeping out onto the concrete floor. He didn't bother counting them, suspecting that they were all there.

Santini had also approached several boxes labelled as various explosives, leaving the hurricane lantern beside Leigh Roland, and he gingerly pushed the boxes with the toe of his snow boots, to see how heavy they were, and frowned at Hawke.

"What do we have here …." He bent down carefully to take a closer look.

There were several different kinds of explosives, as Leigh had reported. Dynamite and C4 Plastique, Gelignite and nitroglycerin, all packaged separately, obviously all designed and required for specific uses.

Santini nudged the boxes aside carefully, finding most of the contents half spilled out on the floor, the rest still in side, fuses yanked out of the sticks of dynamite, some sticks squashed by what was obviously the heel of someone's shoe or boot, the others with slash marks across them.

However, he was pleased to see that someone had had enough forethought to treat the Nitro and Gelignite with the care and respect they deserved, the bottles of Nitro still carefully rapped in their protective padding, but someone had taken a knife to the plastic, gouging out lumps and criss-crossing slash marks all over it.

However had done this, Santini surmised, didn't know a whole helluva lot about explosives.

He wasn't an expert himself, but he knew that all the explosives here needed something to set them off, like detonators, or electronic timing devices, and that stored as they were, in a temperature controlled environment, all the explosives here were relatively safe.

With perhaps the exception of the dynamite, you couldn't just put a match to them and wait for them to go boom. However, you did need to treat the Nitro and the Gelignite with a little TLC for they were temperamental if handled incorrectly.

Whoever had done this didn't realise that to make them useless, all he had to do was destroy the detonators, not the actual explosives themselves.

Santini straightened up now, his hand drifting to the nagging little ache in the small of his back, as he turned to seek out Hawke, who was now standing over a box of upturned detonators, kicking them over gently with his foot, all smashed or shattered. Fuse wires had been pulled apart, stripped and shorn through and electric timing devices had been smashed too.

"That still leaves the tranquilizer darts, Leigh," Hawke pointed out returning his anxious blue eyes to her equally anxious face and watched as she moved cautiously across the small room toward one of the open cupboards. Stretching up on tip toe she opened a small silver flap above the cupboard and Hawke saw her immediately give a deep sigh of relief.

Inside there was another solid steel flap, like the doors on safety deposit boxes in banks, and this door had a manual combination lock set into the door, securing it.

Hawke watched as Leigh Roland quickly dialled the combination with shaking fingers and the door released silently revealing the contents within.

"They're all here. Two full boxes and one half box. Just as it should be," she advised with more than a note of relief in her voice, then shut the safe door and re-engaged the lock and Hawke silently echoed her relief, for the last thing they needed right now was someone running around armed with enough sedative to knock out a herd of elephants.

"Who else had the combination?"

"Just me and Dr De Wit."

"Why you?"

"Because legally, as a medical doctor, I am responsible for all the dangerous drugs on the station."

"Ok," Hawke sighed deeply, turning away from the box of detonators and regarding Santini with expectant eyes. "I don't think we can find any answers here …."

"I agree with you, String. It's a real mess in here, but I don't think there's anything missing," the older man concurred.

"Just one Colt," Hawke amended. "But that's not to say that whoever took it is still running around here waiting to use it on us," he conceded with another apologetic look toward Leigh Roland and she nodded gently in acceptance of his apology. "Let's take a look at this log book of Dr De Wit's …."

"This way …."

Again Leigh Roland took the lead, directing the group back to the Administrator's office and a few minutes later, Hawke found himself standing in the doorway of Dr Wilhelm De Wit's office, finding him self thinking that the place looked like an explosion in a paper factory.

"Oh hell ….." Leigh cursed as she pushed the door open wider, a look of horror on her face as she surveyed the files and papers littering the floor, the telex machine smashed, in pieces on the floor beside the desk and various filing cabinets tipped over on their sides.

"I take it he didn't usually keep it like this?" Santini quipped, again raising the hurricane lantern to throw off more light.

"Hell no. He was a real neat freak," Leigh Roland sighed, tears misting in her eyes, briefly, as she spotted the shattered photograph frame that had sat so proudly on Wilhelm De Wit's desk and had contained the family portrait she had mentioned to Hawke earlier, then she walked across the room, avoiding overturned furniture, as she made her way to the Administrator's upturned desk, trying the top two drawers and finding them locked.

She picked up the over turned chair and set it upright, then sank down in it, scratching her head as she looked for something to use to gemmy the drawers open, finally spotting the familiar sword shaped silver letter opener that had been a gift to Wilhelm from his wife, Miep, for their silver wedding anniversary, lying on the floor beside the chair.

She bent down and retrieved it and then without giving it a second thought, jammed the sharp end between the top of the drawer and the frame and tried to prise it open.

When that did not work, she jammed the letter opener in the lock and tried to force that open, and all the while Hawke and Santini stood by and watched with amused glances.

Finally the lock on the first drawer gave way and she pulled it open swiftly, hunting around inside to find the daily log, another leather bound ledger. They had all been color coded and she knew that she should be looking for a red one for this month.

"Damn!" She slammed the drawer shut with gusto when she did not find it amongst the note lets and paper clips, the pens and pencil sharpeners and staples, then turned her attention to the other drawer.

"Would you like me to shoot it open for you, honey?" Santini quipped, amused by the grim determination on her face as she worked on the lock.

"Huh?" She responded vaguely.

"Never mind …." Hawke drawled as she finally got the second drawer open and immediately withdrew a large red leather bound book.

"Bingo!" She grinned happily at both men now.

"Great. So how about we take it back to the recreation room and read it there in comfort? We've been away from the heat for long enough," Hawke pointed out.

They had been reasonably warm whilst they had been moving around, fuelled by adrenalin, but now that they had stopped, he was beginning to feel the chill all around him, his muscles tightening and his bones stiffening up now.

"I'm with you, String …. Freezing my butt off here …. And we never did get that coffee with lunch …." Dominic Santini chuckled now.

"Coffee sounds good to me too, guys …." Leigh Roland acquiesced with another gentle smile, hugging the ledger to her chest. "After you …."


	7. Chapter 7

**_Chapter Six_**

**_Whiteout Station - The Arctic Circle._**

**_Somewhere on the Polar Ice Cap, Northern Alaska._**

**_Day Twelve – Wednesday, February 22nd, 1984._**

**_Late afternoon._**

Back in the kitchen, Leigh Roland watched Dominic Santini work efficiently as he set about making coffee for the three of them, nibbling on a stale cookie she had found in the bottom of the cookie jar, at the back of the store cupboard beside the stove, more to appease Hawke than because she felt hungry.

She leaned wearily against the kitchen counter, aware as she did so of Hawke's silent scrutiny of her, unable to stop herself from wondering what it was exactly he saw when he looked at her, and what he was thinking and feeling, what was really going on behind those hooded, guarded eyes, and then she held the double swing fire doors open for Dominic Santini as he carried the hot coffee back into the recreation room and Hawke brought up the rear.

Again they all sat at the table where they had shared lunch, and she poured over the ledger, catching up on the day to day events at Whiteout Station whilst she had been away.

"Leigh?" Hawke prompted after she had been quiet for some time, absorbed by what was written on the lined pages before her in Wilhelm De Wit's neat, calligraphy script.

"Sorry …. I wasn't sure how far back to start, so I just picked up from when I left, a month ago. We don't know when this thing might have actually kicked off …." She reminded at his look of impatience.

"And?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary. So far …."

"Then skip a few pages," Hawke suggested haughtily.

"Fine," she sighed deeply and flicked ahead a couple of pages, smothering a smile by raising her coffee mug to her lips now.

"And?"

"Ok …. Nothing unusual. Dr De Wit is writing mostly about the weather and general moral and the supplies that he needs, oh, wait, here's something …. Dated Monday 13th February …." She paused to read the entry with renewed interest.

"Leigh?" Hawke prompted somewhat impatiently now.

"Sorry …. It seems that it was a pretty ordinary day, but then there was a bit of excitement. They saw a shooting star," she grinned at Hawke then, revealing her small white perfect teeth.

"A shooting star?" Hawke echoed, frowning.

"Yes. A meteorite, I guess. It was quite late in the afternoon, and they knew that there was another storm brewing, but it seems that after a brief debate, Dr De Wit agreed to four men going out there to try to find the thing …."

"That's why they went out on the ice?" Hawke asked in incredulity, far from amused now. "To find a piece of damned rock?"

"Rock from another planet, maybe," Leigh Roland grinned at the sour expression on Hawke's face now.

"They got all excited about a piece of rock falling out of the sky?" Hawke drawled sarcastically now, his eyes narrowing as he regarded Leigh Roland. "They risked their damned lives for a piece of rock?" His expression revealed his disbelief that anyone could have been so reckless.

"They were scientists, Hawke," Leigh reminded in exasperation, easily able to imagine the reaction of most of her colleagues to the sight of the fiery meteorite streaking across the heavens, about to fall to earth not very far from their backyard.

They wouldn't have been able to resist it.

They would have been like a bunch of excited kids on Christmas morning, with the exception of Greg, whom she could well imagine, would have kept his head down and out of the way, leaving the others to do the actual dog work of retrieving it.

"They risked their lives every day, just living here. Simple things please simple minds, Hawke," she grinned again, imagining the buzz of excitement that had gone through the community, knowing all the personalities involved and the challenge they would have seen it as.

It would have been just too good an opportunity to pass up. No matter what the dangers or the risks.

Something new and exciting to focus their attention on.

Something to relieve the monotony.

"They would have seen it as a unique opportunity to study something rare," she smiled softly, and it was easy to see the fondness with which she held her colleagues written all over her face now.

"Who went out? Does it say?"

"Sure. Tyler Keegan, Sven Sorenson, Jean-Claude Dubois and Frank Coleman. Keegan drew the weapons and took the rifle and tranquilizer gun, as he was the certified marksman," Leigh briefly flicked her gaze back down to the written page before her then looked back up and continued.

"Apparently there was some uncertainty about their going, because of the time of day and the weather deteriorating, but everyone knew that if they waited until the storm cleared the following morning, they might never find it. I guess Dr De Wit weighed up all the pros and cons, decided that the risks were acceptable …."

Stringfellow Hawke found himself wondering if the Administrator had really had much choice, or if he had found himself influenced by the others.

However, as he mulled this over, Hawke saw Leigh Roland's expression change as she continued to read.

"So, they went out onto the ice to retrieve this ….. Meteorite, what then?" Hawke prompted, taking a sip of his coffee now and watching Leigh Roland's face closely as he did so.

"When they set off, everything was fine. They estimated that the meteorite had made landfall east of here, roughly a kilometre away, easily within walking distance, and the weather was clear and reasonably good. The general consensus was that they would easily make it there and back before nightfall and before the weather deteriorated again, but, then it looks like the wind changed direction suddenly and the storm closed in much quicker than they expected …. And the four men never made it back that night …."

That made sense to Stringfellow Hawke, and it accounted for why the weapons had not been returned to the Armoury Monday night.

"The next day, Tuesday 14th February, Dr De Wit sent out a rescue team on the snow mobiles. They searched from just after dawn until after lunch, when another storm front closed in, but they only found Sven Sorenson …."

Leigh Roland read aloud from the ledger now, her voice growing tight with anxiety.

"He was unconscious, from a blow to his head, suffering from exposure, barely alive, and had mild frost bite, so they brought him back here and Shane Preston saw to his medical needs, warming him up slowly with thermal blankets and an IV drip. When he was asked what had happened, Sven said that the storm had closed in really quickly and that after that, he couldn't remember what had happened to the others. He'd lost sight of them in the blizzard, then lost orientation himself. He tired to look for them, and almost fell down a crevice. He managed to pull himself out, but not before he lost his pack and his weapon. The next day he, Sven, was well enough to insist that he get on the supply plane, which arrived first thing on Wednesday morning and left again just after lunch …."

"And they just let him go? Just like that?" Hawke could not hide his surprise.

"His wife was about to have their first baby, Hawke. He couldn't risk being delayed by another storm," she reminded impatiently. "Besides, Dr De Wit might have wanted him to get some proper medical attention too."

Hawke nodded gently.

It was a reasonable assumption, and along with the man's anxiety about getting home to be with his wife, Dr De Wit might have felt that he had no choice but to let the only witness to a major incident simply fly away, perhaps hoping that once he was away from Whiteout and less stressed, Dr Sorenson might remember more about the incident and report it to the authorities back home in Sweden.

"What about the meteorite?"

"Doesn't say. Probably never found it, or if they did, it was lost with the other three men out there …."

Again she grew silent and sorrowful, and Hawke realised that she was probably thinking exactly the same as he was, at that moment.

That it had been a foolhardy exploit and an incredibly senseless waste of three lives.

"Then what?" Hawke prompted again, needing her to stay focused.

"They sent out another search party in the morning, Wednesday 15th February, although I suspect that they knew that it was useless by then. Again they found nothing. They extended the search, tried looking in a different direction, tried looking further afield, but still nothing," she paused briefly then to let out a deep, ragged sigh.

"Dr De Wit even talked the pilot into doing an aerial search, but he found no sign of any of them either, but then the pilot called off the search. He had no choice. They only had enough fuel left to get them back to Nome, and then the supply plane left. The storm closed in behind them …. Things went back pretty much to normal …."

"How is that possible? How can three men simply disappear like that?" Santini asked in incredulity now, setting down his coffee mug and reaching out for the pot to pour himself a top up of the steaming brew.

"Quite easily, Dominic," Leigh explained in a soft, sad voice. "A storm blows up, they get disorientated, succumb to the cold, fall and break a limb, or hit their heads, lose consciousness and get covered by the fresh snowfall, or the ice shifts and they fall into crevices …."

"So why didn't the pilot report the loss of these three men to Nome?" Hawke pondered out loud now, trying to disguise the shiver that ran down his spine as he envisaged the three men lost out there in the blizzard, totally disorientated and surely knowing that they were going to die ...

"There was probably a proper procedure, and Dr De Wit was a stickler for following procedures, remember. Legally they would probably have had to be reported to the appropriate authorities as missing persons, as no bodies were actually found, and no-one saw them die …." Leigh's voice quivered just a little now.

"Maybe the storm front was affecting the plane's radio equipment and the pilot didn't have time to give them a full brief at Nome …. Maybe he didn't want to say too much in front of Sven, God knows the man must have been feeling pretty bad about what had happened …. I don't know, Hawke …." Leigh Roland was growing agitated now. "I can only guess …."

"The storm doesn't explain the plane crashing, Leigh," Hawke pointed out. "The storm wasn't supposed to hit until hours after they were due to arrive at Nome …."

"I don't have any answers, Hawke, only what Dr De Wit wrote in the log!" She snapped back irritably. "Besides, Nature has her own timetable up here …." She scowled darkly back across the table at Hawke. "You can forecast your little heart out, but Ma Nature is unpredictable and carries on in her own sweet little way …."

"So what else does Dr De Wit say, honey?" Santini prompted now, noting the tension beginning to develop between the two young people again.

"Naturally, everyone was upset by what had happened and moral was quite low. Everyone keeping themselves to themselves and burying themselves in their work …."

She cast her eyes back down to the ledger and began to read once more, a frown soon marring her beautiful brow once more.

"What is it?"

"He mentions, but only in passing, that people are starting to feel a little off color. Nothing dramatic, just the odd sniffle or cough. He makes a comment about wishing I had come back with the supply plane, because a few of the folks were beginning to show symptoms of flu, and if there was going to be some kind of mini epidemic it would be handy to have is CMO around …."

"Which folks? Shane Preston?" Hawke probed now, shifting forward in his chair and pinning her with steely eyes.

"Yes. Shane was one of the first …. Then Hans and Torben, and Eunice and Sheila and a couple of the others …."

"Then what?"

"Then nothing."

"What do you mean nothing?" Hawke demanded with a frown.

"Just what I said. Nothing. Dr De Wit didn't write anything else after the last entry on the evening of Thursday 16th February. He indicates that there is a strange mood abroad, a melancholy hanging over everyone, but under the circumstances that would hardly be surprising," she reasoned softly. "Everyone dealing with their grief and the shock in their own ways …." She paused to take a breath and lowered her gaze back to the handwritten page before her.

"He goes on to mention that the storms are particularly fierce and that even he is feeling a little claustrophobic, and that tempers are a little short and that more people are reporting feeling a little under the weather, and that's it …."

Leigh Roland placed the ledger on the table between them and turned it around so that Hawke could read the details for himself, which he did with obvious frustration, noting as he did so that the previously neat and immaculate handwriting had begun to show a definite wobble here and there.

"Leigh …." Hawke paused, raising his eyes from the ledger, trying to chose his words carefully so as not to anger her again, as he watched her raise her coffee cup to her lips and take a sip. "This strange mood, this melancholy …. Could it have been the onset of severe isolation sickness …."

"What, all of them? All at the same time?" She spluttered. "Pretty bloody convenient! And pretty bloody unlikely too," she glowered at Hawke now as she wiped a dribble of coffee from her chin impatiently.

"You don't just suddenly flip. There are signs, specific symptoms, and everyone was well aware of what they were and kept a close eye on everyone else…."

"What symptoms?"

"Small things to begin with. People get a little touchy, over sensitive, maybe a little more emotional than usual. Then they may start to feel a little depressed, irritable, suffer insomnia. They begin to lose the ability to think rationally, experience mild claustrophobia, sudden, inexplicable mood swings, outbursts of irrational anger, mild paranoia …."

Leigh Roland's voice trailed away as Hawke arched an eyebrow cynically at her, immediately getting his silently made point.

"Everyone feels some of those things at some time, it doesn't mean you're going bonkers. If that were the case, I might be seriously concerned about _**you **_right now …."

_**Touché,**_ Hawke thought sourly with a deep sigh and sensed Dominic Santini smirking into his coffee cup beside him.

"All I'm saying is that you don't just suddenly snap. Things start to get you down and the usual coping mechanisms get a little out of synch, but there are signs of it happening. People have different levels of tolerance, Hawke. Some succumb more quickly than others. Some fight it, and quite often bounce right back. It's totally implausible to believe that every single person on this station suddenly went loco at exactly the same time."

"Maybe that's not exactly how it happened …." Hawke conceded gruffly. "But just for arguments sake, suppose that enough of them became sick, they were able to overpower the others …."

"No, I'm sorry, Hawke. I just don't buy it. Something would have had to trigger them off …."

"And you don't think losing three men out there on the ice would do that?" Hawke snarled.

"We're not talking about a bunch of wimps here, Hawke! These were all very strong minded people. I'm not saying that it wouldn't have been upsetting, unsettling for them, but it wouldn't have tipped them over the edge either," Leigh reasoned now. "If you must know, I'm more concerned about the physical symptoms they were exhibiting."

"Oh?"

"I know it doesn't sound like much. A common cold, or flu, but when I left here, everyone had a clean bill of health. The supply plane had managed a couple of trips in the interim, but everyone remained well, so that means that the crew didn't bring anything nasty in with them …."

"Until this last trip …." Hawke finished for her, although silently he reminded himself that she had been feeling off color herself lately, and that she had been so desperate to get back here, it didn't seem to worry her too much about whatever germs she was carrying infecting everyone else here at Whiteout Station.

"Maybe. And that's what scares me, Hawke. If they brought something in with them, it was pretty fast acting!"

Hawke could see from the expression on her face that she was genuinely concerned now.

"Most diseases have an incubation period, sometimes as long as ten to fourteen days before the patient begins to display symptoms. Its how most diseases prevail and spread. In most cases, if you don't have any symptoms, every time you breathe, you're spreading it around without even knowing it," Leigh explained in professional tones now.

"If the crew of the supply plane did bring something in with them, it had a pretty short incubation period. Whatever it was, it just took a few hours to take effect and for people to become symptomatic. Frankly, I don't know of anything that acts that quickly." And the perplexed expression knitting her brow told Hawke all too clearly that she was searching her memory, but coming up with nothing.

"But it would explain why their plane crashed," Dominic Santini lent his voice now, after watching the proceedings in silence. "If they were sick …."

"But if they were **_that_** sick, someone would have noticed. Someone would have prevented them from leaving, if only for their own safety. If they had been symptomatic, Dr De Wit would have followed procedure and quarantined them here until they could find out what it was they were dealing with," Roland reasoned now, capturing her bottom lip between her teeth and chewing on it pensively.

"Leigh, is there any disease you know of that would cause both the physical and mental symptoms you mentioned?" Hawke quizzed now, his tone dark and ominous.

"No. Not that we're not discovering new things all the time …." She clarified, but not before noticing the foreboding expression now clouding the young man's face and realising the direction Hawke's thoughts were taking him again.

"Oh for crying out loud man, are we back to that?" She gaped at him, feeling certain that he was once again entertaining ideas that she and her colleagues had been sent to Whiteout Station to create some terrible new weapon, either chemical or biological, and was now fearing that somehow something nasty had got lose.

"'Struth! Did anyone ever tell you that you've got a bloody one track mind!" She railed, pushing back her chair now and swiftly rising to her feet in anger, tiny fists clenched so tight at her side her knuckles were white, tawny eyes ablaze with fury and grief and outrage.

"What the hell were you people _**really**_ doing up here!" Hawke demanded, also rising to his feet, leaning forward across the table, forearms shaking with his anger, as they supported his weight, glaring at Leigh Roland with eyes filled with accusation and undisguised disgust.

"String!" Santini's tone held a note of warning as he reached out now to place a gentle, but restraining hand on Hawke's right forearm with his big left hand.

"No, Dom …." Hawke snarled, his gaze never leaving Leigh Roland's white face, knowing instinctively that she was still trying to hide something from him, and felt Santini's grip tighten around his arm, just a little.

"You don't understand, Dom. If whatever they were working on got lose, if they somehow lost control of it, then we could all have been exposed to it too …." Hawke hissed through clenched teeth and immediately felt Santini's grip on his arm relax in response, as the older man realised the implication of what he had just said.

"She's been hiding something from the beginning, Dom …." Hawke sneered now, leaning across the table, pushing his face closer to Leigh Roland. "What aren't you telling us, Leigh? What the hell were you people really doing!" He demanded again.

"I already told you once …."

"And I don't believe you!"

"Well tough!" She screamed back at Hawke now, feeling hot tears welling up in her eyes and spilling over through her fine gold tipped lashes and rushing down her cold, pale cheeks.

"You _**knew **_what happened here …." Hawke accused now, his face flushed and twisting into a nasty, hateful expression, glittering blue eyes boring into her. "And if you didn't _**know,**_ you suspected!"

"Don't be ridiculous! If what you're saying is true, do you really think I would have been so stupid as to come rushing back here? To put both of you …. Myself, at risk?"

"Maybe you were sent here to cover up the truth?"

"You're crazy!" Leigh Roland retaliated.

_**God he was a hateful man!**_

_**A cruel, hateful, bully of a man!**_

_**How could he think such things of her?**_

_**She was a doctor, a healer, not a killer!**_

_**Why was he goading her like this?**_

"Enough!" Dominic Santini jumped to his feet now, raising his voice and tightening his grip on Stringfellow Hawke's arm, sensing the incandescent rage and tension flooding through the young man.

"I've had it with you two!" He roared, aware of Hawke breathing hard beside him, trying to reign in his anger, and watching Leigh Roland weeping silently, swaying alarmingly as though her legs threatened to buckle beneath her.

"Sit down, doctor …." Santini said in softer tones, anxious that the young woman might faint at any moment. "And if you do know something about what happened here, I think you'd better start talking …." He advised, tugging gently on Hawke's arm now, encouraging the young man to retake his seat.

However, Leigh Roland did not do as she was asked, instead, she snatched up one of the hurricane lanterns, span around on her heel and forced her legs to carry her swiftly out of the recreation room, without a single backward glance, the sound of her harsh, ragged sobs echoing off the cold steel walls as she went.

"Dammit!" Hawke snarled, trying to wrestle himself out of Santini's suddenly vicelike grip.

"Don't make me hurt you again, String …." Santini warned in a low, hard voice, raising his meaty right clenched fist and flexed his fingers meaningfully, as he fixed the younger man with an angry glare now.

Hawke shrugged off Santini's hand now, however, still breathing hard, his expression glacial, his eyes cold and glistening with fury as they bored into the older man, he sank back into his seat and forced himself to take control of himself.

"That was real smart …." Santini accused, letting out a deep sigh as he picked up his chair, which had tipped over as he had jumped to his feet. "Real smart," he sat down wearily in the chair and regarded Hawke with undisguised disappointment and confusion.

"You saw her, Dom. She's hiding something," Hawke snarled, deliberately dragging his gaze away from Santini, ashamed of his behaviour and just a little shocked at how quickly he had lost control.

"Maybe she is …. But I don't think it's what you're thinking. She made a pretty valid point about putting us and herself at risk …."Dominic Santini pointed out in a soft, reasonable voice, feeling his heart rate gradually slowing, now that all the excitement was over.

Stringfellow Hawke stubbornly refused to look at Santini and remained silent.

"String …." Santini exhaled heavily, raising his right hand to rub it roughly over his face now. "I don't think that what just happened here had anything to do with this mission …."

Hawke opened his mouth to deny it, but then closed it again quickly, realising that his old friend was more astute than he realised.

"I told you something had to give …." Santini reminded, watching the younger man drawing in deep, calming breaths, piercing blue eyes still cold and hard and unforgiving.

Santini remained silent for several minutes watching his young friend wrestling to regain his composure, and then gave another deep sigh, deciding that he really didn't have anything to lose by speaking his mind. The young man was already angry.

"Why are you so eager to believe the worst about her, String? Why don't you want to trust her? Is it because she let you down once already?"

This drew a sharp look from Stringfellow Hawke, which then turned into a glower as the young man gave a huge, shoulder raising sigh.

_**Clever Dom.**_

_**You know me so well ….**_

"Leave it, Dom …." Hawke hissed through clenched teeth.

"Sure, son. How long would you like me to leave it this time? Long enough for the two of you to kill each other?" Santini retorted sarcastically.

"Dom …."

"Deal with it, String," Santini advised solemnly now, his tone lacking any kind of judgement or emotion.

If anything, Hawke found himself thinking, the older man was being rather more tolerant and sympathetic and understanding than Hawke had any right to expect in light of his recent behaviour.

"You've got to pull yourself out of this nose dive, kid, before you crash and burn!"

"I know I'm right about this, Dom …." Hawke continued to scowl.

"I know you _**think**_ you're right, but you ain't exactly thinking clearly right now, String," Santini reminded gently.

"Ok, I figure you might be on the right track, about what you think happened to the people here, but I think you're wrong about Dr Roland," Santini told him without preamble, gently letting the younger man know that he was on his own with his animosity toward the lady doctor.

"Think about this for a while. If you're right, and something nasty is on the loose here, then she's in as much danger as we are. She might be a little highly strung, String, but she ain't stupid, and I don't think she has a death wish …."

Dominic Santini paused for affect, drawing in a deep breath, watching the sour, distrusting look on Hawke's face.

"If there was some kind top secret weapons development program going on up here, String, I'm pretty sure that Dr Roland wasn't involved, and didn't know anything about it. If she had …. Right here, right now, would be the last place on earth she would want to be, no matter how much she loves her husband," the older man reasoned gently.

"And if you are right, if we have been exposed to something nasty and we start to get sick …. She might also be the only person who could help us."

Hawke, feeling calmer and in more control of himself by the second, regarded Santini with cold eyes, but had to silently concede that his old friend had a valid point.

_**Maybe he was wrong about what went on here at Whiteout Station.**_

_**Maybe he was wrong about Leigh Roland too.**_

_**But then again, maybe he wasn't**_.

The only person who had any answers was Leigh Roland, and she had taken flight.

Again.

_**Why did she keep doing that?**_

_**Why couldn't she face him?**_

_**What was she so scared of revealing to him?**_

_**Was it possible that Dom was right, that it had nothing at all to do with their current situation, and everything to do with the past?**_

This thought sobered Hawke even more quickly.

_**She got mad when you pressed her about being sick …. When you asked her if she was pregnant ….**_

The thought flashed through his mind, unexpectedly.

_**She got mad when you asked her what she was hiding ….**_

_**If she's not hiding the truth about the research going on here at Whiteout ….**_

_**It has to be something from back then ….**_

"String?" Santini asked now, shifting forward in his seat to place his hand on the younger man's knee as he noticed the change in his expression, eyes growing wide with shock and all the color suddenly draining from his face as he swallowed down hard.

"Where did she go?" Hawke demanded through clenched teeth, his mind reeling, his stomach roiling and his heart tripping wildly in his chest, eyes darting around the recreation room in search of Leigh Roland, despite the fact that he knew that she was long gone.

_**Oh God ….**_

_**Was it possible?**_

_**Could it be?**_

"String, give her time to calm down," Santini advised softly, worried now by what he could see in his young friend's face.

"I have to talk to her …."

"You have to calm down and take things easy, String. If you go after her now, you'll only make things worse," Santini pointed out. "Going off at the deep end ain't exactly getting ya anywhere …." He gave Hawke an appealing look now and patted his knee gently. "C'mon kid, tell ole' Dom what ails ya …." He coaxed. "How bad can it be? I already know you love her."

This drew a sharp look of surprise from the younger man now.

"Yeah, that's right. Dumb old Dom already worked that much out for himself," Santini chuckled now. "And I guess it didn't turn out too well …. Did she find someone else?"

"I don't know …." Hawke responded quickly and gave a huge sigh, closing his eyes briefly as he sank deeper down into his chair and tried to organise his errant thoughts.

_**Slow down, buddy.**_

_**Think it through before you go rushing in.**_

_**Charging in like a bull in a china shop won't help, it will probably just make her run further and faster.**_

_**You've got to be calm.**_

_**You've got to encourage her to trust you, to confide in you ….**_

_**You won't get at the truth if you keep making her mad.**_

Easier said than done, with his heart racing in his chest and his hands shaking so badly, all he could think of was finding Leigh Roland, of confronting her, making her tell him the truth ….

"That's just it, Dom. I don't know what happened. When we parted, it was because we had to, there was no other choice, and we did so with only two promises. That in the short term, we would write to each other, and then the first chance I got, I would go back and we would see if we still felt the same way …. But …."

"I take it this happened some time back?"

"1971."

"What? Oh …. For heaven's sake String, the way you've been acting I thought it was maybe six months or a year back. You've been stewing on this for thirteen years?"

"Yeah,"

"So what happened …. How did you meet?"

"It was my second tour of 'Nam. I got some extraordinary leave. Wasn't very happy about it, and I couldn't come home …." Hawke raised sorrowful eyes to Santini now by way of a long overdue apology.

"I know kid. So you went to Sydney?" Santini guessed, trying not to feel hurt that the young man hadn't felt able to come home to visit with him.

It had been a long time ago, and a bad time emotionally for both of them.

"You see, my memory isn't failing me. I was sure it was you, not Sinjin, who told me about going to Sydney …." Santini digressed, but only briefly.

"Yeah," Hawke exhaled raggedly.

"And to cut a long story short, and spare you the embarrassment of going into detail, you went 'native' with a beautiful Aussie girl …."

"Something like that," Hawke allowed himself a ghost of a smile now.

"Been there, done that, kid, so don't think you're sparing me any blushes!" Santini chuckled again now. "You don't have a monopoly on being young and foolish!"

Santini winked at the younger man and Hawke let out a soft sigh, realising that he should have known that Dominic would understand, after all, he was a man of the world too.

"I wasn't always old and grey ya know!"

Santini let out a shout of genuine laughter at the bashful look now settling on Stringfellow Hawke's face.

"So, you fell in love. You thought she loved you too …" Hawke nodded now.

So what if it they had only had a month together?

It had been the most magical time of his life, and had filled him with such hope, such promise ….

It had only been a beginning, but all along Stringfellow Hawke had known that it was more than just a fleeting affair.

He hadn't committed himself, but he had also known that he could not simply walk away.

That it was a once in a lifetime opportunity to find the happiness he so desperately sought.

He had fallen in love with Leigh, and he had known from the first moment that he had kissed her that when he was done fighting in Vietnam, he would come back for her.

And instinctively, he had known that she would be there, waiting for him, because she loved him too, and believed as he did, that they belonged with each other.

_**So much for instinct!**_

"But, she never wrote …."

"No."

"But it was wartime, right? You figured no news was good news, and maybe her mail was just getting lost …. Maybe she had the wrong address and some other confused GI was getting your mail instead …."

"Yeah."

"And then when you got out of the Army, you went looking for her and …. found her with someone else?" Santini guessed now, his expression revealing that he thought that his young friend should have known that he was looking for trouble and heartache, but understanding that it was something that he had had to do.

"No. I went looking for her, yes, but she was gone …."

"Ah …."

"I don't know what happened, Dom. She just seemed to have disappeared, and I didn't have time to go hunting for her …."

"So you came home and got on with your life. What else could you do?" Santini nodded sagely now, recalling what Hawke had said about knowing Leigh Roland in another life, and that to his knowledge he had done nothing to scorn her, but that it was the other way around, and understanding much better now.

Santini also recalled how distant and shut off the young man had seemed when he had finally returned to his home in California, but that at the time, the older man had put it down to battle fatigue and shock, to his recent injury and his spell in the hospital, his guilt and grief over his brother's continued missing status, and trying to adjust back into civilian life after the horrors he had been forced to witness and participate in over there in that Asian hellhole.

Never once had it crossed his mind that there might be a girl somewhere in the mix.

"And then …." Santini prompted gently now.

"And then, suddenly there she is, and she's so damned mad with me you'd think _**I**_ was the one who dumped _**her**_! I don't know why she's so mad, Dom. I loved her. _**I**_ didn't give up on us, _**she**_ did. I went back, but she wasn't there. What was I supposed to do? I didn't know if she was dead or alive …." Hawke gave a huge sigh and hung his had briefly.

"What is it, String?" Santini coaxed, suspecting that his young friend had thought of something else, and it was that which was troubling him deeply.

"I …. I need to speak with her Dom. I need to hear what she has to say …." Hawke made to rise from his seat, but again Santini stilled him with a gentle hand to his knee.

"I guess it's only fair you hear her side of it," Santini conceded. "Something has obviously hurt her pretty bad, String …."

"Dom, I think you're right …." Hawke raised his face again now as he spoke, and there was something so primitive and so haunting in his beautiful blue eyes, it tore at Dominic Santini's heart.

"She's not hiding something about Whiteout, or this mission, but she is hiding something. There is something that she doesn't want me to know, something that she's afraid to tell me …."

Hawke's voice trailed away on a ragged breath, and suddenly Dominic Santini thought he had an idea what the young man was thinking, and just as suddenly, it all began to make sense.

"Are you sure you want to know, String?" Santini asked in a low, solemn voice, giving the younger man a meaningful look now. "Are you sure you _**really **_wanna know?"

"Yeah, Dom," Hawke drew in a deep, ragged breath and expelled it a moment later as an equally deep sigh. "I'm sure …."

"And what if she's still not ready to tell you?"

"It's a risk I've got to take, Dom. I've waited twelve years to find out what happened to her, why she disappeared, and like you said, something's gotta give …."

"Maybe you should give her time to cool off a little first …." Santini suggested. "She looked like she was about to spontaneously combust when she rushed out of here …." He reminded, throwing the younger man a wry smile now.

"All the more reason not to give her too much time alone to plot how she is going to murder me in my sleep …."

/a

As Leigh Roland hurried away from Stringfellow Hawke's nasty, sneering face and suspicious, accusing eyes, her feet had automatically carried her to the one place, other than the room she had shared with Greg Chandler and had thought of as home, where she knew that she would feel safe.

However, before she had reached sickbay, she had had to take a detour to the nearest bathroom, the violence of her sobs making her feel very sick, spending several uncomfortable minutes dry heaving over a chemical toilet bowl and calling herself all kinds of fool for allowing Hawke to get to her.

Finally dragging herself to sickbay, Leigh Roland closed the door behind her and engaged the lock, then forcing herself to ignore the still and silent body of her friend, Shane Preston, lying on a gurney in the centre of the room, covered with a thin green sheet, she had hurried to the far end of the lab and locked herself in her office, leaning heavily against the door and sliding slowly down to the floor, into a heap of abject misery, bringing her knees up into her chest and burying her head in her hands as she continued to sob uncontrollably.

_**Damn him!**_

_**What the hell did he want from her?**_

_**What did he think he was doing?**_

_**How could he be so cruel and so harsh and so bitter?**_

_**Why was he so distrustful, so hell bent on disbelieving her?**_

_**Damn him!**_

_**Didn't he know how difficult all this was for her, without his ridiculous suspicions and accusations?**_

_**She didn't need this!**_

_**You can't let him keep doing this to you!**_

_**Dammit woman, you're stronger than this!**_

_**Pull yourself together and start acting like the calm, intelligent professional that you are!**_

_**All this undignified snapping and snipping and weeping and wailing just isn't like you, girl, so get a damned grip!**_

_**He's just letting his imagination and his mouth run away with him ….**_

_**In truth, he's just as much in the dark about all of this as you are, and he's coming at it from a different direction.**_

_**Let's face it, you don't know squat about him and what he does, aside from flying that incredibly beautiful, but nevertheless deadly helicopter.**_

_**Maybe coming across like James Ruddy Bond isn't just an act!**_

_**His world might be dark and filled with intrigue and danger and reasons to be distrustful, where he has to live on his wits and his nerve and be constantly vigilant and suspicious about everything and everyone ….**_

_**But in your world, you place your trust in science, on solid facts.**_

_**So use your head, idiot, and find some facts. **_

_**Some solid proof. **_

_**Something that he has to believe with his own eyes and can't shoot down in flames.**_

_**Make the wretched man believe you!**_

_**There has to be some clue, there just has to!**_

At last her sobs subsided, but she remained sitting on the cold linoleum floor, face still awash, her hair unkempt and clinging to her cheek in ragged uneven tufts, her hands shaking so violently she had to clasp them together around her knees to keep them still, Leigh Roland tried to organise her thoughts, tried to piece together what she had learned from Dr De Wit's log, but she could not shake Hawke's harsh, accusing expression from her mind, nor his ridiculous suspicions.

What if he had a point?

Oh, not about the chemical or biological weapons.

He was way off beam with that ….

It was complete nonsense. She knew that for an absolute fact.

But, what if he was right, and something nasty had gotten lose on the station?

_**Think about it ….**_

She admonished herself sternly_**.**_

_**You made the connection yourself.**_

_**You were more worried about the sudden physical illness Dr De Wit wrote about than the possibility of everyone losing their minds due to severe isolation sickness ….**_

She had been so adamant that Hawke was wrong …. But now she couldn't stop thinking about the generators, the radio and the disarray in the Armoury, the obvious violence, the fury of the frenzied attacks on the equipment and the destruction of the weapons ….

_**Ok, she could see where Hawke was coming from, but it still didn't add up.**_

And if not severe isolation sickness ….

What?

What could induce insanity as well as produce the symptoms of an upper respiratory tract infection?

What could act so quickly? Getting a hold in less than twenty four hours?

And how was it introduced to the population here at Whiteout?

_**Think dammit!**_

_**Think!**_

Rising slowly to her feet at last, her backside and legs so cold she could barely feel them, Leigh released the lock on the office door and took a tentative step into the frigid main sickbay and again felt her heart trip in her chest as she allowed her gaze to settle on the body of Shane Preston_**.**_

_**The answers have to be here ….**_

She knew what she had to do, but she didn't think that she could face it right now.

The thought of defiling her friend sickened her ….

"Leigh!" Stringfellow Hawke's loud, insistent voice suddenly split the silence, along with thudding sound of his fist pounding on the door, making her jump.

_**Damn him!**_

_**Not now, Hawke ….**_

"Leigh, please, open the door!"

_**Why couldn't he leave her alone!**_

She needed to think.

She needed to concentrate, and how the hell was she supposed to do that with all that damn racket going on!

"Leigh, I know you're in there!"

Hawke continued to call out her name and pound on the door, although, she had to admit that he didn't sound angry, so much as anxious about her.

"Please, open the door, Leigh. We need to talk …."

More pounding.

"I know you're in there, Leigh. Answer me, please!"

The note of anxiety in his voice increased and fleetingly, Leigh couldn't help feeling a perverse sense of satisfaction.

"Leigh, please …."

"Go away!" She yelled back in frustration, raking her shaking fingers through her messy hair, wanting to tear it out by the roots but resisting the desire, knowing that even that small amount of physical pain would not relieve her of the pain she was feeling in her heart right now.

_**What is it with this man!**_

"Leigh, I'm sorry …."

"Go away! I'm busy!"

"Leigh …."

"I'm working! And I can't think straight with all that damned noise! Now bugger off and leave me alone!" She railed.

"Leigh …."

In the frigid corridor outside sickbay, Stringfellow Hawke winced at Leigh Roland's quaint turn of phrase, and let out a deep sigh as he cast a wary glance toward his companion, Dominic Santini, then again made a token protest, even though he knew that it was pointless.

"Leigh …."

At least she had responded and Hawke took some small comfort in that.

When he and Dominic Santini had realised that she hadn't gone back to her room, Hawke's mind had presented him with all kinds of horrific images of Leigh lying unconscious on the floor some place cold and dark where they would never find her ….

And then he had realised where she would be, and again he had feared that by pushing her for answers, he might just have pushed her over the edge ….

At least she was safe.

But, she was still mad.

And, he conceded silently to himself, she had a right to be.

Obviously she wasn't ready to let him off the hook just yet, and there was nothing that he could do about.

He certainly wasn't going to get any of the answers he sought from her while she was still so upset.

_**If she would ever be willing to give him any answers at all ….**_ A little voice niggled at the back of his mind.

Maybe she would simply refuse to talk to him, and he would be left with yet another uncertainty for the rest of his life.

"Be reasonable, Leigh You can't possibly work in this cold …." Hawke tried reasoning with her now. "Please Leigh. You don't need to do this right now. Come back to the rec room. You need to keep warm …. You can do this in the morning, when we've had a chance to warm the room up a little for you …."

"I'm fine. Look, I told you, I'm working. Now let me get on with it …."

Leigh kept her tone low and even, clenching her fists at her side and squeezing her fingernails deep into her palms in a bid to stop the grief and heartache and despair she was feeling from creeping into her voice.

She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing just how much he had hurt her.

Nor would she let him see that his genuine concern for her wellbeing was even more heartbreaking than his irrational anger.

Reminding her so much of the sweet, sensitive, gentle boy she had fallen in love with all those years ago ….

_**Damn him!**_

_**How could he do that?**_

_**How could he turn the tables on her like that, just by showing her a little compassion!**_

_**Well, it wouldn't wash, dammit!**_

_**It was too little, too late.**_

_**She would rather have his anger and spite and disgust. She could deal with that.**_

_**She didn't want or need his damned pity!**_

_**She didn't want or need him, period!**_

_**She just wanted him to leave her the hell alone!**_

"You want answers, then leave me alone to do my job. I'll let you know what I found, when I'm done …."

"Leigh …." Hawke made another half hearted attempt, even as he felt the weight of Dominic Santini's hand coming to rest on his shoulder and turned to find his old friend shaking his head and giving him a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry …. I didn't mean …."

"Forget it Hawke," she cut him off abruptly. "You have a right to your opinion."

"Leigh, please …." He implored now.

"I'm ok …." She shouted back in what she hoped was a more confident and calm and reassuring voice, continuing to look at Shane Preston's lifeless body knowing what she had to do and that she couldn't put it off any longer.

The sooner they had answers, the sooner this would be over and done with.

"Look, just let me get on with it will you, please. This is going to take some time, but it'll take even longer if you don't let me concentrate …. No point us all freezing to bloody death. Go and get some rest. Doctor's orders."

"C'mon String, let the lady do her thing …." Santini encouraged, giving the younger man's shoulder a brief squeeze, then frowned at the look that suddenly clouded Hawke's face. "What?"

"I guess she made her feelings pretty clear," Hawke sighed raggedly, his breath erupting in a plume of water vapor in the freezing air.

"Huh?"

"Seems the lady would rather lock herself in a freezing cold room with a corpse, than face spending time with me …. What does that tell you?" Hawke hissed through his teeth, and Dominic Santini rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation as the younger man pulled away and stalked back up the corridor in frustration.

/a

In the overwhelming emptiness that followed Stringfellow Hawke and Dominic Santini's departure, the only sound aside from her erratic breathing, the comforting hiss of the hurricane lantern on the floor in her office where she had left it, Leigh Roland had to concede that Hawke did have a point about it being too cold to work efficiently or effectively.

Sickbay was, for all intents and purposes, a giant ice box, and trying to perform an autopsy on a semi frozen body wasn't something that she would even contemplate attempting under normal circumstances.

But, these were not normal circumstances.

And whilst she might not be able to conduct a complete post mortem, she would be able to do a close enough examination of Shane Preston's body to determine the cause of his untimely death, and perhaps reveal some clue as to what had happened to the other scientists.

Leigh Roland gulped in several deep, calming breaths and willed her hands to stop shaking, her knees to stop knocking together and her heart to stop racing, as she walked over to the box of equipment that Hawke had left on the counter on the other side of the room earlier, and after flipping open the lock, pulled out the neatly wrapped sections of a microscope, and other pieces of equipment that she would need, and set them out carefully, then after setting up the microscope and checking that it was correctly calibrated, she lined up test tubes and slides in readiness then she reluctantly shrugged out of the heavy Parka coat, because it was too cumbersome to work in, and donned several layers of surgical gowns over her clothes, a face mask and two pairs of latex surgical gloves.

The cold was already making her movements slow and disjointed as she laid out all the instruments she would need to carry out the rudimentary procedure, and she knew that Stringfellow Hawke was right.

She had already been away from the heat for too long, her mind and her body were slowing down due to the excessive cold.

She would have to make this as quick as she could, and then get back to the warmth of the recreation room, even if it did mean that she had to come face to face with her tormentor again so soon, if she didn't want to risk succumbing to hypothermia.

With only the one hurricane lantern, she realised that she would be struggling for light too, but it was the best that she could do, so she would just have to manage.

It wasn't ideal, but the job still had to be done.

_**Poor Shane …. **_

_**It wasn't like he was in a position to complain, after all ….**_

Flexing fingers made stiff by the cold and awkward by the twin layers of latex, finally Leigh Roland knew that she could put it off no longer, and made herself approach the body on the gurney.

She knew that her reluctance stemmed from the fact that the man lying there had been such a good friend, so warm and vibrant and full of life only a few days before, a good friend to herself and to Gregory, and he didn't deserve this indignity.

If it were anyone else lying there, with the exception of Greg, or maybe Hawke, she would have approached it with her usual calm, professional poise and dignity, cool and detached, curious to get the answers she sought, and without hesitation.

_**Thank God it isn't Greg ….**_

_**Or even Stringfellow Hawke for that matter ….**_

_**I'm sorry mate, so sorry ….**_

She felt a shudder run through her body as, reaching out, hands still trembling, Leigh Roland slowly pulled back the thin green sheet covering Shane Preston's face and let out a deep, ragged sigh.

"I'm sorry …." She reached up and pushed back a tendril of soft brown hair which had fallen untidily over his brow, with infinite care and tenderness, feeling her legs shaking and her heart racing in her chest.

"So sorry, Cobber …. I'll be as gentle as I can …. Forgive me …." She murmured in a soft voice, dragging in a deep breath and closing her eyes briefly, as she fought down the sob which was stuck behind a huge lump in her throat, and summoned up the strength to do what needed to be done, and then she straightened up and turned away from her friend's face and forced herself to concentrate on the task ahead.

/a

Stringfellow Hawke's eyes instantly flew wide open, his keen ears alerting him to the soft swishing and sucking sound of the double swing fire doors opening and closing on the other side of the recreation room, despite the soft, rumbling snores of his sleeping companion, Dominic Santini.

Hawke had not been sleeping.

No such luxury for him.

His mind was far too active, racing in several different directions all at the same time, effectively keeping sleep at bay, despite the fact that he was bone weary and feeling more than a little drowsy now that he was warm and his body relaxing.

When Leigh Roland had not emerged from Whiteout Station's sickbay after an hour locked inside with the body of Shane Preston, Hawke had been all set to go drag her out of there, but Dominic Santini had reasoned with him that she had to come out of there sooner or later, if only to answer the call of nature, and that he had to trust that she would know when she had reached the limit of her physical endurance.

When it became clear that Hawke was no longer in the mood to talk, Santini had headed back to the kitchen and rummaged around in a few cupboards, looking for something to snack on, muttering to himself about wishing he could lay his hands on a juicy steak or a cheese burger, or a nice pork chop, and then, disappointed and dissatisfied, nibbling on a handful of dry crackers, he had returned to the recreation room, settled himself on the mattress closest to the heater and suggested that they both try to get a little sleep.

It had been a long and trying day for everyone, and Hawke knew that his old friend was right. They would all think more clearly after getting some much needed rest.

However, that had proved easier said than done for the younger man.

Whilst Dominic Santini had slipped easily into a deep and peaceful slumber, almost immediately his head hit the pillow, sleep had continued to elude Stringfellow Hawke.

He had settled down on the centre mattress of three, laid side by side, staring up at the ceiling for a while, watching the dancing shadows, then closed his eyes, even though he had known that sleep was a long way off.

He had lain there with no idea of how much time had passed, listening to Dom's intermittent rumbling snorts and whimpers, the wind howling like a banshee around the corners of the metal Nissan huts and whistling through the gaps in the eaves over head, the soft hiss of the hurricane lantern and the occasionally puttering of the gas space heater, punctuated by his own rapid, irregular heart beat pounding in his ears, as he tried to sort out the jumble of snatched, fragmented memories and unsettling thoughts tumbling crazily through his mind.

Now, instantly alert and wide awake, he sat bolt upright and focused his eyes on the set of swing doors across the room, immediately finding Leigh Roland standing just inside the doorway, her face white, eyes dull and lifeless, body visibly shaking and watched with horror as her legs gave way beneath her and she sank lifelessly to the floor.

Instantly Hawke sprang off the mattress, scrambling out of the thermal sleeping bag he had wrapped around himself, and reaching out, grabbed a blanket from the empty mattress beside him as he rushed across the room on long, swift strides.

"Leigh …." He hunkered down before her, eyes anxiously taking in her pallor, and shallow, ragged breathing, and the fact that she wasn't wearing the heavy Parka coat, then without thought or hesitation, or a care as to whether she would protest or not, Hawke reached out and gathered her limp body to him, draping the thick blanket around her narrow shoulders, before gently hoisting her up into his arms.

She was so cold, cradled in his arms, Hawke could feel it penetrating through his own clothes as he held her body, pressed close to his own and he hurried back across the room knowing that he had to get her warm as quickly as he could.

She was shivering and shaking, despite the fact that she was unconscious, and Hawke somehow knew that that could not be a good sign. It meant that her core body temperature was too low and she was chilled to the bones.

She might even be hypothermic.

Hawke felt his anger flare, briefly, at her utter stupidity, but it was a futile waste of energy and temper and he shoved it to one side as he carried her across the room toward the heat and light.

Leigh let out a soft little moan as Hawke carefully lowered her down on to the mattress he had just vacated, knowing that it was closer to the heater, and would still retain some of his own body heat, and then he followed her down, carefully sliding down beside her, pressing his chest and abdomen against her back, spoon like, as he pulled Leigh's frail body close to his own, wrapping his arms around her tightly as he drew the blanket around them both, and then tried to rub some heat into her arms, and back and legs, encouraging the blood to flow around her body a little more vigorously.

Leigh Roland made no protest, but Hawke soon became aware that she had regained consciousness when he felt her body trembling as silent sobs wracked her slender frame and she fought to drag in gulping, ragged breaths between sobs.

"Sh, it's alright, Leigh, hush now. We have to get you warm …." Hawke soothed in a gentle voice, feeling her body quaking and trembling violently and he squeezed her reassuringly, praying that she would not turn on him and push him away, all the time cursing himself for not following his instinct and going to drag her away when he had thought about it earlier.

He should have known that she would become so engrossed in what she was doing, in trying to find a way to stick it to him, no doubt, and prove to him once and for all that what she and her colleagues had been doing here was entirely innocent, she had lost track of the time, and given no thought to her own safety and wellbeing.

"It's ok Leigh, I'm not going to hurt you …." Hawke rasped breathily when he felt her pulling away from him, fearing that she had come to her senses and remembered how mad she was with him and that even though he was only trying to help her, she still couldn't bear for him to touch her.

However, Leigh Roland surprised him by moving away from him, but only to allow herself the room to turn over and face him, then, with barely enough time for him to register that her face was glistening, in the soft glow of the hurricane lanterns and the golden light from the gas space heater, her face awash with tears, she threw herself at him, burying her face in the fabric of his coat at his shoulder and clung to him with all her might as more silent sobs wracked her body.

Stringfellow Hawke wrapped his arms around her more tightly and wracked his brain for the right thing to say.

However, there were no words of comfort or support, or even words of hope that he could offer to her at that moment, and he would not lie to her, would not tell her that everything was going to be alright, when deep down in his heart he knew that things were far from alright, and that he was not sure that any of them would ever leave here again. So, he remained silent, slowly running his hand through her hair, cupping the back of her head, rubbing her back in a comforting circular motion, whispering meaningless, but hopefully soothing noises into the hair on the top of her head, as she clung to him, silently pouring out her sorrow, until at last she grew calmer.

"I'm so sorry, Leigh …. I don't know what's gotten into me …." Hawke whispered lamely as she pulled far enough away from him to look up into his anxious face, her own face still bloodless and now an empty, emotionless mask. "I don't want to hurt you, but somehow I just can't seem to stop myself …."

Leigh Roland made no answer, she simply nodded in understanding then eased herself very carefully down his body so that she could rest her head against his chest, and let out a soft sigh.

"Sleep …." She mumbled wearily as her eyes drifted closed, although Hawke knew it was a long time before she eventually stopped fighting it and gave into her body's need for rest, and it was an even longer time for him, as he savoured the feeling of her lying cradled in his arms, resurrecting memories of an idyllic month, thirteen years ago, when all the horrors in the world had seemed so very far away, and he had discovered a world full of light and joy and possibility and hope.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Chapter Seven_**

**_Whiteout Station - The Arctic Circle._**

**_Somewhere on the Polar Ice Cap, Northern Alaska._**

**_Day Thirteen – Thursday, February 23rd, 1984._**

**_Approximately 6am local time._**

Leigh Roland came awake slowly, eyes stubbornly closed, reluctant to leave the cozy, comfortable cocoon that was the limbo space between dreams and wakefulness, chasing down the remnants of a dream she had already forgotten most of the details of, as she snuggled closer.

She loved waking up like this.

Slowly.

Lazily.

For years she had woken alone and risen almost immediately, rushing headlong into the daily grind without lingering, without stopping to think just how empty her life was, and just how lonely she had been.

Emptiness and loneliness had become a habit.

Now she had someone to wake up next to, someone to share the daily routine and maybe linger over those quiet, special little moments with.

Like waking up in the arms of the man that she loved.

She was warm, comfortable, content, very much aware of the gentle rise and fall of his chest against her cheek, still half asleep, feeling safe and relaxed, as she stretched languidly, mindful of digging her elbows into delicate places.

She tilted her head back from where it nestled and, a gentle smile curving at her lips, nuzzling his chin with her nose, pressed her mouth against his stubble roughened cheek in light, sweet kisses, as she worked her way upwards, seeking out his lips, moulding her own to his in a long, deep, drugging, toe curling kiss of greeting, and gave a soft, sigh of contentment as she felt him respond in kind.

She was ready now to open her eyes and look into his beloved face and soft sherry brown puppy dog eyes ….

Except it wasn't Greg's dopey, adorable face, soft and flushed with the remnants of sleep, big brown eyes full of love and the stirrings of passion, but the sharp, chiselled features of Stringfellow Hawke, and his deep, piercing, sky blue eyes, that confronted Leigh as she opened her eyes at last.

Her instant reaction was to let out a yelp of shock and pull away, but Hawke had a protective and restraining arm draped around her waist, and one leg resting heavily over both of hers.

She was effectively trapped, although she did not feel threatened, just shocked and embarrassed by the tenderness of the feelings that she had just had, but, she reminded herself swiftly, she had believed that she was waking up in her husband's arms, not Hawke's.

Stringfellow Hawke watched Leigh's beautiful golden teddy bear eyes grow wide with shock and felt her grow rigid in his arms, praying that she had not seen the elation and passion that he had experienced when her lips had found his a moment before.

Of course, deep down inside, he had known that it was her husband that she was kissing, that she had emerged from some pleasant dream of the man that she loved and had instinctively reached out to him ….

His own reaction surprised him, shocked him, and he knew that he should feel guilty and ashamed, but ….

For just the briefest instant ….

It had been so beautiful, so sweet and tender and loving ….

Reminding him so keenly of bygone days ….

He had found himself responding.

And for a split second, he had found himself wishing that he was the one she felt so strongly about.

Leigh, he knew, was still half asleep. Still in that limbo world between sleep and wakefulness, not completely aware, or in control of her actions ….

_**But what was his excuse?**_

He had been awake for some time, watching her sleeping, savouring the sensation of her warm, relaxed body pressed close to his, the gentle rhythm of her breathing and the occasional soft whimper or moan as she dreamed.

And then she had started to stir, and he had known that he should do something to make her aware that it was not her husband in whose arms she had slept the night away so peacefully ….

But he could not.

He wanted to hold on to the moment just that little bit longer, knowing that he might never have another chance to be this close to her, to feel this way about her without the element of guilt or anger or despair.

He knew that he was courting disaster.

Risking her anger.

But, it was such a poignant moment to him.

So bittersweet ….

And then she had kissed him.

And Hawke had given into the riptide of emotion her sweet, soft, gently exploring lips had wrought from him.

_**He was only human, after all ….**_

Seeing the shocked and outraged expression now forming on Leigh Roland's face, the unmistakeable horror and disappointment in her beautiful amber eyes, Hawke knew that it had been a mistake.

But he didn't regret it.

Why should he?

He still cared a great deal for this woman, and always would.

Just because she had moved on, it didn't alter the fact that he still loved her.

She might hate him for the rest of her life, but he would go to his grave loving her, and bitterly regretting that he had allowed his childish sensitivity at being rejected, to force him to simply walk away without digging a little deeper, without finding out once and for all what had caused Leigh to turn her back on their future together.

His stupid male pride had kept him from trying to follow her, fear of learning the truth, of heaping still more pain and heartache upon himself had prevented him from finding her and facing her, and he had never moved on, never found peace or closure.

His feelings for her were as fresh today as they had been that last time he saw her, in mid September, 1971, and rather than face up to them, to admit that he still cared, he had allowed anger to control his every thought and action, deriving some kind of perverted pleasure that his cruelty was hurting her, driving her away, all the time hating himself, but unable to stop himself nevertheless.

Remaining silent, Hawke watched realisation begin to dawn in Leigh's wide, golden eyes now, realisation of where she was and what they had learned since arriving here crashing through her, and he felt her shuddering breath as she closed her eyes against the renewed horror of it and gave a soft little moan, before dragging in a deep, cleansing breath and opening her eyes, focusing on his face once more.

"Hi," Hawke spoke in a whisper at last, knowing that she was very much wide awake now. "Sleep ok?"

"Mmmmm. You?" She mumbled back, her voice also low, and rough with sleep.

"So, so …." He admitted with a rueful smile, propping himself up on one elbow now and regarding her questioningly. "Leigh …."

"Thank you for keeping me warm," she threw him a weak smile, but then he saw her face change, an odd kind of grimace twisting her lips and he could not help wondering if she was still sick.

Her face was still flushed from sleep, not the pale, ghostly bloodless image of the previous night, but her nose was wrinkling back now, as though she were fighting off nausea, and she was wriggling and squirming, her fingers seeking out the irritant and stabbing and scratching absently in several different places, as though she were uncomfortable in her own skin, as she eased herself away from him.

"Leigh …." He hesitated, desperate to ask the question that had been burning in his mind all night long, knowing that there might never be another time when she might be inclined to open up to him, and perhaps be willing to tell him the truth, but then he faltered, unable to voice the words.

He couldn't just hit her with it, out of the blue.

"I'm sorry about your hair …." He said instead, keeping his voice soft, reaching out carefully to ease a rough tuft away from her brow.

"It was childish of me ... I shouldn't have over reacted …." She sighed deeply, avoiding his gaze, fingers drifting up to massage at her earlobe now. "Like I said, it'll grow back. God, what I wouldn't give for a long hot shower …." She muttered irritably, fingers drifting up to rub roughly at her scalp and Hawke found himself in silent agreement with her, grateful that she too seemed to be avoiding any mention of what had just happened between them.

Suddenly he saw another strange look cross her face and she came to an abrupt halt as she raised her face to him, her jaw dropping open as her eyes met his, and she realised exactly what she had said, and how he might perceive it.

"I'm sorry …." She stammered now. "I didn't mean …."

_**She didn't mean that just being close to him made her feel dirty ….**_

Hawke silently finished the sentence for her, and let out a deep sigh of resignation.

_**Oh Leigh, obviously you know the old adage, if you lie down with dogs you're bound to get fleas ….**_

"It's ok, Leigh. I know what you meant …."

"It's this bloody sweater. I love it so much, but every time I wear it, I swear it just makes me so damned itchy!" She rushed to explain, unaware as she did so that her fingers were again worrying at another irritation, this time along her collar bone, and then she was frowning as she realised that Hawke was actually grinning at her, his beautiful deep blue eyes dancing with amusement.

"So I see …." He spoke on a soft breath and she followed his gaze to where her fingers were busily gouging away at a tender spot around her midriff, whilst at the same time she was wriggling around, rubbing herself against the fleece lining of the sleeping bag, trying to relieve the irritation she felt all over her back.

"Do you need a hand?" Hawke drawled, not bothering to try to hide his mirth, arching an eyebrow sardonically as he watched the weird little dance she was performing.

"No! Thank you …." She hissed back through clenched teeth and shuffled away from him, pulling her legs out from under his, deliberately putting more space between them, and then she pushed the blanket away from her and sat up, moving carefully, as she swung her legs over the side of the mattress, presenting Hawke with her back now as she eased herself toward the edge, rolling her head from side to side to relieve the tension in her neck muscles and stretching her spine and shoulders.

Hawke watched in silent admiration of her graceful movements, finding himself recalling other times when he had watched her, but then they were both distracted when Dominic Santini suddenly began coughing, a series of deep, hacking chesty coughs that brought Leigh Roland quickly to her feet and made Hawke roll over to regard his old friend with undisguised concern.

"What's every body staring at?" Santini mumbled groggily as he came awake, opening his eyes to find Leigh Roland standing over him and Stringfellow Hawke regarding him with a deep frown.

"What?" He looked from Roland to Hawke and then back again. "Sorry kids, just clearing out the old pipe work, I guess …." He flopped back against his pillow with a grin, and then raised a balled fist to his mouth to smother a yawn.

When she allowed her gaze to drift back to Stringfellow Hawke, Leigh Roland could not misunderstand the look on his face.

Back was the dark, distrustful scowl, the hard accusing glitter in his eyes, and she knew what he was thinking.

_**So we're back to that again ….**_

Was this how it had started for her friend Shane Preston?

A cough?

A sniffle?

Oh God, she hoped not ….

Not after what she had found during the post mortem on Shane's body ….

Leigh Roland returned her attention to Dominic Santini. He looked well enough, granted his face was a little flushed, but that could be from sleep, or from being so close to the space heater all night ….

It was probably nothing ….

But ….

It might also be something ….

_**Oh damn him, now he's got you thinking the same as he is!**_

"G'day, Dominic …." Leigh Roland forced a smile to her lips as she greeted Santini now, not wanting to alarm him, but the older man had his eyes closed again as he raised a meaty right hand to run it absently over his face, driving the last remnants of sleep away. "Sleep well?"

"Sure did," he responded absently, fighting back another loud yawn. "Like a baby."

"Yeah, a baby moose …." Hawke muttered sarcastically, but his cold, ruthless, penetrating blue eyes remained fixed on Leigh Roland's face.

"Whatchya say, String?"

"Nothing, Dom …."

"How about you, kids? You sleep ok?"

"Eventually …." Roland and Hawke said in unison, and then Leigh Roland hung her head briefly, before lifting it once more to glare at Stringfellow Hawke.

"I'll go make some coffee …."

"Good idea, doc. My throat's as dry as the Sahara …." Santini smiled, wrestling himself up into a sitting position and untangling himself from sleeping bag and blanket, and now that he was more awake, once again aware of the odd tension between Hawke and Roland.

"I see she didn't murder you in your sleep then, kid …." Santini quipped once Leigh Roland had left for the kitchen, swinging his legs out over the side of the mattress so that he was sitting facing Stringfellow Hawke now.

"Give her time …." Hawke muttered thickly under his breath, listening to the loud rattles and clangs and banging noises coming from the kitchen, as Leigh gathered together the things she needed to make fresh coffee, obviously taking out her irritation and frustration on the cupboards and pots and pans.

"Did she say yet if she found anything?" Santini asked now, carefully stretching his spine to ease out the kinks, feeling a slight knot in the small of his back and a dull nagging sensation, the beginnings of headache, thrumming steadily behind his eyes.

"No. Didn't get a chance. She stayed in there so damned long she almost froze to death …. She only just made it back here before she passed out, and I ended up putting her to bed …." Hawke explained, watching his old friend's eyes crinkle briefly now, with what looked a lot like pain. "Dom, you ok?"

"Sure. Just the beginnings of a headache. I'll hit on the doc for some Aspirin when she comes back. Be fine in no time …." Santini assured and Hawke left it at that, not wanting to alarm his old friend, after all, he might be barking up completely the wrong tree, and it really was nothing.

A coincidence.

Just a case of a headache induced by too little sleep, quickly followed by too much, and the older man moving some early morning phlegm from his lungs.

Clearing out the pipe work as he had said.

_**Let's hope that really is all it is ….**_

Hawke thought darkly, and then reminded himself that he had woken up alongside the older man often enough in the past few months, after long nights spent working on restoring Airwolf to mission readiness, then crashing out on the cave floor, to know that it wasn't an unusual occurrence these days.

"Guess you didn't have time to talk to her about …. Ya know …. The other thing, either, huh?" Santini asked with another soft yawn, absently running his fingers through his grizzled and already mussed thin grey hair.

Stringfellow Hawke made no reply; he just shook his head gently.

"Waiting for the right time, huh …." Santini continued, but he was talking to himself because Hawke's attention was focused on the racket still coming from the direction of the kitchen.

_**Dammit, did she really need to slam every drawer and cupboard door just to make a simple pot of coffee?**_

_**What was it about him that made her so angry?**_

"Don't blame ya. We've got enough to worry about as it is …. So, how ya feeling, kid?"

Santini's question surprised Hawke, snapping his attention back to the older man, finding him regarding him now with knowing grey eyes.

_**So, how was he feeling? **_

Hawke silently asked himself, and did a quick evaluation of his condition this morning.

He still felt weary, despite the fact that he had managed to grab a few hours sleep, and he had a few aches and pains, a tightness in his neck, a niggle in the small of his back and another across his shoulders, but that was probably from the unfamiliar mattress, and from holding Leigh ….

He was also feeling uncomfortably warm ….

But that could be due to the fact that they had left the space heater on all night ….

Or, it could just be that a certain female had gotten him all riled up again ….

However, Hawke suspected that his old friend was asking him more about his mood and his frame of mind than his actual physical condition.

_**Well, that remains to be seen old friend ….**_ Hawke thought silently to himself.

_**And depends very much on Leigh Roland and just how hard she's prepared to yank my chain ….**_

_**She's already pressing most of the right buttons ….**_

"I'm good …." Hawke finally replied in a rough, raspy voice and found him self frowning at the unusually gruff sound coming from the back of his throat, and realised that his mouth was also extremely dry.

"You two sign a ceasefire this morning?" Santini grinned at him now, but Hawke was saved from having to make any response by Leigh Roland's brusque return to the recreation room, wrestling with the kitchen swing fire doors and muttering darkly under her breath, as she carried in a tray laden down with cups and sugar basin and coffee pot which she set down noisily on the nearest table, spilling coffee and upsetting crockery and sugar in the process.

"You're a life saver doc …." Santini chuckled as he watched her pour out a cup of the dark, heavenly scented brew, and then heaved his bulk off the low mattress, stretching carefully, before walking over to the table and helping himself to a cup of the steaming, strong black coffee.

"Dom has a headache," Hawke informed in raspy tones as he too rose from his perch on the edge of his mattress and slowly strode over to join Leigh Roland and Dominic Santini, ignoring the older man's scowl and Leigh Roland's evil glare.

"I'll get you some thing in a minute, Dominic," Leigh Roland offered, sloshing hot coffee into a cup and almost over Hawke's hand as he reached out to take the cup from the tray.

"You're not running out on us again, Leigh," Hawke snarled, snatching his hand out of the way as she continued to glower at him, coffee pot in her hand, contents dribbling on to the tray unnoticed. "I'm not letting you out of my sight again, after last night. You could have died from hypothermia …."

"Hardly!" She scoffed spilling more coffee over the table and the tray, conveniently forgetting just how wretched she had felt as she had forced herself to leave her work in sickbay, terrified, heart sick and chilled to the marrow, to seek out necessary heat.

"Hey, be careful with that thing, doc …." Santini warned, scuttling out of her way as she waved the scalding hot coffee pot around.

"Leigh, you were frozen to the bone," Hawke reminded scathingly. "No more solo endeavours. We stay together!"

"Hey kids, I wanna drink my coffee, not wear it!" Santini interjected as both Hawke and Roland both opened their mouths to speak. "Now why don't you set that coffee pot down, and take a seat doc," Santini tried to soothe, pulling out a chair for Leigh Roland and indicating to it with his free hand.

"Good java doc, now pour your self a shot. I think you could use it," and now the tone of Santini's voice and the look on his face told her that he would not brook any argument from her.

"And you, hot shot …." Santini turned his attention to Hawke now, as Leigh Roland sank down in the seat he had provided for her with a deep sigh of resignation, and an even deeper scowl on her face, aimed directly at Stringfellow Hawke.

"Back off and cool your burners, sonny, and drink your coffee, then maybe when we've all woken up properly, we could sit and have a civilised conversation about what the doctor found out about Dr Preston …."

Hawke, scowling at Santini, remained silent and tight lipped as he roughly pulled out a chair beside the older man, turned it around, legs scraping harshly against the floor with a spine chilling screech, and straddled it, resting his folded arms across the top of the backrest.

"Doc?" Dominic Santini prompted after several minutes of tense silence as they all three sipped, without enjoyment, on their coffee. "Did you find anything helpful?" He coaxed in a gentle voice, taking a sip of his coffee, only to pull the cup away from his lips as he was consumed by another fit of deep, hacking coughs.

"Mr Santini …." Leigh Roland was instantly out of her seat and beside the older man, but he fended off all her efforts to pat him on the back, face growing red as he gasped for breath between coughs.

"I'm ok …." He choked out at last. "Just went down the wrong way!" He explained with a somewhat sheepish look on his face, the penny finally dropping as he realised that both young people were concerned that maybe he was coming down with something, and that it was no coincidence, in light of what they had discovered yesterday.

"Relax will ya!" He told them both impatiently. "I'm fine," He assured, still fending off Leigh Roland's attempts to get close to him, although now that he actually stopped and thought about it, he felt his heart miss a beat or two, when he realised that his throat did feel a little raw and that there was an irritating little tickle there too, and that maybe there could be something in it after all.

"Will you quit that, doc …."

"Maybe you should let Leigh check you out, Dom …." Hawke suggested sharply.

"There's nothing wrong with me, now will you two calm down!" Santini bellowed then began to cough once more.

Leigh Roland chanced a glance back toward Stringfellow Hawke, and now found him giving her a look that told her to ignore the older man's protests and do what she needed to do.

"C'mon Mr Santini, it can't hurt …."

"I'm fine," Santini dragged in a long, deep breath and then took another sip of his coffee, fixing cold, steely grey eyes on Stringfellow Hawke. "But I take it from the way you're over reacting, you _**did**_ find something," he concluded, arching an eyebrow sardonically as he turned those same hard grey eyes on the doctor, and Leigh Roland realised that he was indeed a very astute man.

He might be the comic relief in this crazy double act of Hawke and Santini, but he was far from being a buffoon.

"Shane's death was by natural causes," she told both men now in a solemn voice. "I found evidence of oedema in his lungs, and tissue damage caused by fever. It is my conclusion that he died from pneumonia, or an upper respiratory tract infection …. It ties in with the symptoms that Dr De Wit wrote about in his log …."

"Pneumonia? I didn't think pneumonia worked that quickly …." Stringfellow Hawke challenged harshly now.

"It doesn't, usually," Leigh Roland confirmed in a tight voice. "Pneumonia is the symptom, it's not the actual cause. Pneumonia is a condition, not an actual disease, it is an inflammation or irritation of the lungs," she explained slowly.

"All I'm saying is that whatever it is we are dealing with, it causes the same damage to the lungs …. His heart was enlarged too, another indication of fever and breathing difficulties …."

"So what usually causes pneumonia?" Hawke demanded gruffly, fixing her with unforgiving eyes.

"Some kind of infection from bacterium or virus, sometimes some form of chemical irritant …."

"Then these people were exposed to something! Dammit Leigh, you've got to tell us what it is! Have we been exposed? Is there an antidote?"

"How many more times do I have to tell you, the only live medium we were working with on this station was the micro organisms we found in the rock and ice core samples!"

"And I say you're lying! How do we know that you didn't just spend most of the night covering up the truth and destroying the evidence!" Hawke seethed.

"You are beneath contempt, Hawke!" Leigh Roland screamed at him now, rising swiftly to her feet once more, but this time, Stringfellow Hawke was ready for her, and as she made to turn and run away, he too rose swiftly to his feet, shoving the chair roughly out of his way as he moved forward, his right hand snaking out and grabbing Leigh Roland by the wrist, spinning her back around to face him.

"No you don't! You're not running away again, Leigh …."

He was breathing hard, speaking through his teeth now, face flushed and blue eyes blazing with anger, vaguely aware of Dominic Santini looming up beside him, the older man anxious that he might be hurting the woman, but Stringfellow Hawke was suddenly incandescent with rage and in no mood to be merciful.

He had given her ample chance to come clean.

Now it was time for the truth.

Hawke roughly pushed Leigh Roland down into the nearest chair and then he leaned over her, resting his hands on the back of the chair on either side of her shoulders, as he glared down at her.

"It's time to talk, Leigh. There's nowhere for you to run to. You're in just as much danger as we are, so you'd better tell me what it is we're dealing with, and how we can protect ourselves from it …." He leaned in closer, his words issued on a hiss, through his clenched teeth, his hot breath fanning her face, his eyes glittering wildly.

"String …." Santini came up behind him and placed a firm hand on the younger man's shoulder, but Hawke shrugged him off angrily, in no mood to be mollified.

"No Dom, I've had it with playing mister nice guy!" Hawke snarled, and Santini automatically took a defensive step backward, shocked by the look on the younger man's face and the vehemence in his tone.

"Take it easy, String …."

"Your crazy!" Leigh Roland screeched, eyes wide and frantic as she realised that the young man was on the verge of losing control. "My God, what the hell happened to you? Who did this to you?"

And now her voice trailed away as she looked at Stringfellow Hawke and for the first time really saw the anger and the bitterness and the cold, hard, ruthlessness in his eyes, and felt real fear of him for the first time.

Hawke must have seen something of what she was feeling in her eyes, because in the next instant he was dragging himself away from her, and she could see that it was taking every ounce of strength that he had not to give in to the uncontrollable rage coursing through him.

Rigid, breathing hard and holding himself in tight control, he took several steps away from her, then span around on his heel and fixed her with cold, empty blue eyes.

"Why do you hate me so much?" He asked in a low, rough, rasping voice.

"I don't hate you, Hawke …. I love you …." Leigh Roland confided in a small, breathy voice, her eyes instantly brimming with tears. "I never stopped loving you …." She choked out raggedly, but she could see that he was having a hard time believing her, and why should he?

He still thought that she had turned her back on their future together and walked off into the sunset with some other GI on her arm, never giving him another thought.

But that wasn't the truth of it.

_**Oh no, nothing that simple.**_

And yes, it hurt, that he could think something like that of her.

It hurt her deeply.

But it hurt her even more deeply that he did not seem to know just how much she had loved him, and just how long it had taken for her to get her life in order after he had been gone ….

_**So tell him!**_ The little voice shrieked in her ear.

_**You've got to tell him. He needs to know …. **_

_**He deserves to know! **_

_**Look at him, he hasn't a clue why you've been acting the way you have. He thinks that you hate him!**_

_**And why should that still hurt him so much after all this time, if he doesn't still feel something for you!**_

_**He still cares about you.**_

_**He didn't desert you, and you didn't reject him …. **_

_**It's time to tell him the truth.**_

_**He has the right to know …. **_

_**No matter how painful**_!

Stringfellow Hawke watched several different emotions racing across Leigh Roland's face, as though she were conducting some kind of silent debate with herself, and he was just about to open his mouth to challenge her, to demand to know what kind of fool she thought he was, when he noticed her expression change.

Huge tears were streaming down her pale cheeks and suddenly her expression seemed to grow vague, distant, taking on such a haunted quality Hawke felt his heart miss a beat in his chest.

"That day …." Leigh breathed in such a low voice Stringfellow Hawke had to strain to hear it over the sound of his own rapid heart beat and ragged breathing. "The day they told me …. I died that day too …." She whimpered heart brokenly.

Hawke made to move forward, a frown clouding his features now, but Dominic Santini took a step closer to him and again reached out for his arm, the expression on his face warning Hawke to do nothing.

"Just let her talk …." Santini whispered, realising that the young woman sitting just a few feet away was so lost in pain and grief she was almost in a trance.

"I lost everything …. Everything precious to me, that day …." She blinked away more tears, her bottom lip quivering as she drew in a ragged breath. "The day they told me you were dead …."

Dominic Santini watched his young friend's face as Leigh Roland spoke, felt him start, her words affecting him like a physical blow, blue eyes growing wide and startled, like he had been slapped.

"They told me you were listed as KIA, killed in action …." Leigh continued, unaware of the shocked expression on Hawke's face, lost in her own little world now.

"I'd been trying to track you down for nearly six months. I wrote to you, every day, just like I promised …. Stupid little bits of nonsense to begin with, and when you didn't write back, I told myself it was because you couldn't. It was a war and you were in the thick of things out there, and didn't have time …. but you'd promised me that you would write, and I knew that you wouldn't let me down. You loved me …. You wouldn't abandon me …. Us …."

Again her voice trailed away as she drew in a deep, shaky breath, more tears coursing down her ashen face.

Hawke felt Santini's hand on his forearm once more, only this time the older man was reaching out to support his young friend, encouraging him down into the chair he had so recently toppled over in his haste to prevent Leigh Roland from rushing away, and which he hadn't noticed Santini picking up and moving toward him, guiding him down in to the seat in the belief that the young man's legs were about to let him down, and as Hawke turned to regard his old friend and mentor with such shock and desolation in his bright blue eyes, he could not have said for certain that the older man was wrong.

_**Dead.**_

_**She had said that she believed he was dead ….**_

_**Oh God, poor Leigh ….**_

_**But how was that possible? **_

Yes, he'd been injured, and his name had briefly made it onto a list of casualties, but to his knowledge, he had never been listed as missing, or killed in action.

Then something else registered in his slow, sluggish brain.

_**Us.**_

She had said, us ….

_**Ohmygod ….**_

So, it was as he had begun to suspect ….

He had left her with a child ….

No wonder she was mad with him.

_**But wait a minute ….**_

_**She couldn't be mad with him for leaving her in trouble, when she believed all this time that he was dead ….**_

_**Was it really possible that she was mad with him because he wasn't dead after all?**_

"I wrote to tell you about …. About our baby …."

A ragged sob issued forth from Leigh Roland's lips now and she slowly began to rock back and forth in her chair, arms wrapped tightly around her middle, eyes glazed, focused on the past, unaware of anything or anyone around her now.

"Oh, I wasn't angry, Hawke …. Surprised, yes, but I shouldn't have been, after all, I was a ruddy medical student …. I knew what I was doing, and I had no regrets ….. I didn't plan it either …. But I was glad. It seemed so right somehow, that a child should come from our love …."

"I wanted you to know that I was pleased, happy. I loved you and together we had made a miracle, but …. I didn't want you to think that I was trying to trap you. I wanted you to know about the baby, but I didn't want it to be the only reason you came back. I needed for you to come back because you wanted to be with me too, because you loved me and wanted to try to make a life with me …. Us …."

"If you didn't love me any more, well, so be it, but it wouldn't make any difference to how I felt about the child …. Your child. I'd have the baby, and love him just the same. You had a right to know …. and a right to choose. I would have accepted your decision either way, but I'd already made up my mind that nothing was going to stop me from having that baby …. I already loved it too much …."

"When you didn't write back, I wasn't sure if it was because you were angry, or scared, or if you just didn't get the letter, or, if you didn't love me any more and didn't know how to tell me …. I tried not to lose hope …."

Leigh Roland's voice trailed away and she hung her head briefly, her narrow shoulders heaving as she succumbed to deep, painful, silent sobs.

Hawke wanted to go to her, but again felt Santini's restraining hand on his shoulder, the older man having moved to stand behind him after he had sat down in the chair.

He watched the pain and anguish wracking Leigh Roland's body, and Stringfellow Hawke knew that he would never truly understand the pain and grief and heartache she had suffered.

She had loved him.

And she had been willing to have his child ….

Even if he hadn't been prepared to stand by her ….

Even if he didn't love her any more ….

To his way of thinking, there was no greater love than that.

_**But what of that child now?**_

"I had a cousin. Brad …. He was working as a journalist, covering the war in Vietnam for some rag in Canberra. I wrote to him in Saigon, and asked if there was some way he could find any news of you for me."

"It was a long shot, but I'd already tried the US Embassy in Canberra and written to the US Army, but they wouldn't talk to me. We weren't married, and despite the fact I was nearly six months pregnant, with this huge ruddy belly on me, they said that because I wasn't a relative, they couldn't give out personal details of any American citizen or service man. I couldn't really blame them, after all, I had no proof that you were the baby's father. So, I gave Brad your details, such as they were. Hawke, Captain, S. 382nd AHC, serial number 57698942 …. That was the end of February, 1972. Almost exactly twelve years ago …."

Again Hawke made to move out of his chair, he had so many questions racing through his mind, and he wanted to go to her, to take her in his arms and try to take away some of the pain and anguish she was feeling, but again, Santini's meaty hand squeezed his shoulder and he twisted around in his seat to regard Santini with a questioning frown.

"Let her finish …." Grey faced, Santini whispered. "Hear her out, son. There'll be time enough for talking later …." He advised solemnly, fearing that if they stopped her from talking now, Leigh Roland might never be able to speak of it again, and his young friend would never know the truth.

Dominic Santini's expression was sorrowful, but there was understanding in his eyes too, and Hawke nodded mutely, twisting back around to face Leigh Roland, waiting for her to continue.

"I didn't know what else to do. I had nowhere else to turn to …. I loved you, Hawke. I needed you. I was so alone …. My family had disowned me, for bringing shame and disgrace on them. They gave me money and told me I had to find my own way in life, and I never saw or spoke to my mother again ….."

"My father wanted nothing to do with me. He didn't even try to make contact with me when my mother died …. and even though we lived in the same bloody city for years, it took his finding out that he was dying to get him to even speak to me …." Leigh sobbed miserably, her face contorting with bitterness.

"The pregnancy wasn't easy. I was very sick most of the time in the beginning, and fainting all the time. I'd had to drop out of school at Christmas, because I was starting to show by then, but I had good teachers, they told me with my grades it wouldn't be hard for me to catch up, once I'd had the baby and decided if I wanted to carry on with my medical degree …."

"When I was well enough, I was working two jobs, waiting tables and pulling pints in a pub at night, and selling perfume and cosmetics in a department store during the day. I only got that job because I bought myself a wedding ring and told the manager that my husband was away fighting in Vietnam …. They wouldn't have had a bar of me and the baby if I hadn't …. And I waited …. Waited to hear from you …. Waited to hear from Brad .… Waited to have our child …."

"And then, I got a telegram from Brad. It said that a Captain Hawke, S. from the 382nd AHC had been shot down and had been listed as presumed killed in action …. It was the beginning of April, 1972 …. 10th April, to be exact …. The worst day of my life. A Monday. Dark and grey and oppressive, like there was a major storm brewing. It tipped it down with bloody rain all day long, like the world had heard the news too and was weeping for you …. My world came tumbling down around my ears …."

"I'm sure Brad must have told me all the gory details, the how and when and where, but it never registered …. It wouldn't have meant anything to me anyway ... I was in shock, denial …. Call it what you want …. All I knew was that I had to know for sure …."

"I went back to the American Embassy in Canberra, showed them Brad's telegram and asked if they could confirm or deny it …. I kicked up a real stink I'm afraid, going back day after day, I don't know for how long …. Dossing down in some fleapit of a hotel when they kicked me out at night, but right back on their doorstep first thing the next morning …."

"By that time I was desperate, almost hysterical, beyond reasoning with. That last day, I must have got through to someone …. I waited all day …. Think it must have been a Friday and somebody was worried that I might still be sitting there making their hallway look untidy come Monday morning … Anyway, someone must have taken pity on me …. Finally someone came and took me aside, sat me down and told me that as far as they could determine, the information was correct. Captain S. Hawke of 382nd AHC had been killed in action on 6th April, 1972 …."

At that moment, Leigh Roland crumpled forward as she let out the most heart rending wail of agony and despair, and now Hawke was out of his seat, feet hurriedly carrying him to the distressed young woman, who toppled out of the chair and fell to her knees, collapsing limply into his open arms as he too fell to his knees before her, sobbing brokenly, gasping for breath, her whole body convulsing as she continued to keen like an animal, as Hawke gathered her close, tears gathering in his own eyes as he finally understood the depth of her pain and the power of her grief for him.

Hawke wanted to comfort her, but he had no words.

He was dumbfounded and more than a little confused.

Obviously there had been some kind of terrible mistake.

Yes, he had been wounded in an aerial battle on April 6th, 1972, but obviously he hadn't been killed, and to his knowledge, he had never been reported as being either missing, or killed in action.

_**Poor Leigh ….**_

"I'm sorry, so sorry …." She spluttered into his chest, thin fingers digging into his ribs as she hung onto him, sobbing so violently she could barely get her breath. "I'm so, sorry …. So sorry …."

Her body was shaking and heaving uncontrollably now and Hawke thought she was going to be physically sick.

He wrapped his arms around her tightly and tried to lift her, his intention to carry her back across the room and lay her down on a mattress, but she wrestled free from his grip and pulled away, staring back at him with tawny eyes full of pain and misery, a forlorn little expression on her face, as she suddenly reached out to cup his handsome, anguished face, as though really seeing him for the first time, and suddenly Hawke could no longer stop himself from asking the question burning in his brain.

"What happened to the baby, Leigh? Our baby …."

"Babies …." She whimpered, a dribble of spittle running from the side of her mouth now, eyes wide, pupils so dilated the huge black disks extinguished the flame of life and passion from her unique amber irises.

"Babies?" Hawke echoed in a low, flat voice, his heart slamming against his rib cage.

"Sons, Hawke …. Twins …. You gave me two beautiful sons …."

"Where are they now, Leigh? Where are our sons now!"

Hawke realised that he was shaking her, his fingers biting into the delicate flesh around the tops of her arms, but Leigh Roland did not seem to notice. She just continued to stare back at him, vague and distant, eyes brimming with more tears, which slid through her lashes and raced down her ashen cheeks, a small but hauntingly beautiful smile curving at her lips as she again reached out to cup his cheek.

"I'm sorry …. So sorry …."

"Leigh …." Hawke shook her again, and now he sensed Dominic Santini coming up behind him, his big meaty hand coming down heavily on the younger man's shoulders.

"String …."

"They're gone …." Leigh Roland whispered, more spittle dribbling from the corner of her mouth to mingle with her tears and Hawke regarded her with horror and anguish.

"What do you mean, they're gone?"

_**Had she given them away?**_

_**Put them up for adoption?**_

"What did you do to them!" Hawke raged, no longer able to stop his mind from running rampage and his emotions boiling over.

"For God's sake, String …. Can't you see what this is doing to her!" Santini tried to bring the younger man to his senses, but he was beyond reach now, consumed with anger and grief and shock.

"Tell me dammit …. They're my sons too, Leigh! Tell me!"

"I'm sorry, so sorry …." She kept repeating, over and over, like a mantra.

"Why are you sorry Leigh? What did you do?" All manner of horrific thoughts were suddenly racing through Hawke's mind as he continued to shake her like a rag doll.

"They're dead, Hawke …."

Her words stunned Stringfellow Hawke, their immediate affect upon him like a physical blow to his solar plexus, his breath rushing from him in a startled gasp and he immediately stopped shaking her as he realised what she was saying.

And now, in complete contrast to the overwhelming anguish and pain in her voice of a few moments before, Leigh Roland spoke in a small, low, flat, empty voice, her head rocking back and forth, completely unaware of the harsh way he was still holding on to her.

"Stillborn …." She whispered breathily, as though she was afraid to say the word. "They were stillborn. The shock …. Hearing that you really were gone …. Dead …."

She was speaking slowly, stiltedly, each word torn from her, her face a pale, bloodless, emotionless mask, but then her expression changed again, clouding over as she began to curl in on herself, as though she were in actual physical pain now, reliving the moment.

"I went into premature labor …. and they were just too small to make it," she rushed on now, almost as though she were afraid that she would run out of courage before she had told him everything.

"They never took a breath. They were perfect …. So beautiful …. Just like you …. But they never had a chance…. I'm sorry …. so sorry, I should have been able to do something …."

"Oh God Leigh, it wasn't your fault …." Hawke felt compelled to tell her as he pulled her roughly to him once more, cupping the back of her head as she subsided against him and gave her grief free reign.

As he held her trembling body in his arms, his mind in turmoil, Stringfellow Hawke felt Santini's hand resting on his shoulder now, and as he turned to look up at the older man, his face awash with tears, Hawke could see tears in the older man's grey eyes too and a shocked and regretful expression clouding his familiar, dear face, and then Dominic Santini took his hand away and turned away, moving back from him, allowing Stringfellow Hawke to return his attention to the distraught young woman in his arms.

Despite the fact that his own heart was breaking in two, Hawke knew that he should say something, that Leigh Roland needed his comfort, his forgiveness, even though she had done nothing wrong.

He understood now.

This was what she had been trying to hide from him.

She had been trying to protect him.

To spare him ….

The joy of discovering that he had left her with a child ….

Twins ….

And then, the pain and the disappointment of discovering that they had died, even before they had had a chance to live …

The tragedy had torn her apart and she had carried the burden of this for twelve years, had mourned him and his sons for almost half her life, before she had finally been able to move on ….

That was how much she had loved him.

How much she **_still_** loved him.

And the irony of it was, it should never have happened ….

All this suffering, all this pain and loss and heart break had all come about because of a lousy mistake ….

Some gargantuan screw up that had somehow resulted in the false report of his death ….

"Leigh …. Leigh …."

Hawke stroked her hair and tried to comfort her, but the poor young woman was beyond any kind of consoling, and so Hawke gathered her close and gently hoisted her up into his arms, rising carefully to his feet, and then carried her back across the recreation room to lay her down carefully on the mattress closest to the heater, fearing that she was in shock, or worse, suffering some kind of mental breakdown, and again he followed her down, lying face to face so that she could see everything that he was thinking and feeling, should she care to look, and know that he did not blame her, that he wished he had been able to bear the burden with her, and holding her tightly, he waited for the storm to subside.

He had no idea where Dominic Santini had disappeared to, but blessed him for his subtly and his tact, finding that he was grateful for the opportunity to spend this time alone with Leigh Roland, holding her close and trying to comfort her, praying that she would find peace at last, now that she had shared the burden with him, and trying to come to terms with his own strong emotions, all the time cursing the war in Vietnam and the US Army, because in one way or anther, they had both been responsible for taking every precious thing away from him.

His youth ….

His innocence ….

His beloved brother, St John ….

And now, Leigh Roland, and his beautiful twin sons ….

To be continued/....


End file.
